&  SONGS  "ft* 

^WORKADAY 

'    WORLD 


BERTON  KRAtEY 


SONGS   OF  THE   WORKADAY  WORLD 


Songs 

of  the 

Workaday  World 

by 
Berton  Braley 


New  York 
George  H.  Doran   Company 


Copyright,  1915, 
By  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


TO 

M.  R. 

THIS  LITTLE  COLLECTION  IS  DEDICATED. 


343516 


TV /|"Y  thanks  and  acknowledgments  are  due 
•1.YA  to  the  following  magazines  and  pub 
lishers  for  permission  to  use  these  poems  in 
book  form: 

The  Saturday  Evening  Post,  Technical 
World  Magazine,  Power,  Harper's 'Weekly,  The 
Edison  Monthly,  The  American  Machinist, 
Coming  Nation,  Popular  Magazine,  The 
Cavalier,  Collier's  Weekly,  Adventure,  Puck, 
McClure's  Magazine,  Newspaper  Enterprise 
Association,  La  Follette's  Weekly,  Woman's 
World,  Ainslee's  Magazine,  The  Designer,  and 
the  New  York  Telephone  Company. 


CONTENTS 


SONGS   OF  THE  WORKADAY  WORLD 

Page 

.The  Miracle  Worker 15 

The   Steel   Worker 17 

The  Jungle  Job 19 

\    The  Power  Plant 21 

•^The  Wop 23 

The  Sand  Hog 25 

Thinker 28 

The  Dead  Reporter 30 

The   Worker 32 

Leather  Leggin's 33 

Gratitude 36 

Forest  Ranger        .        .        .        .  -39 

Ready 41 

The  Handy  Man 42 

SONGS  OF  THE  INLAND   SEAS 

The   Reason   .        . 47 

Erie 49 

The  Skipper 51 

The  Magic  Whistle 53 

The  Packet  Boat 55 

The  Six-Hour  Shift 57 

The  Dock  Walloper 59 

Su'ge 61 

Christmas  on  The  Great  Lakes    ....  63 

L'Envoi 65 

SONGS  OF  DEEP  WATER 

The  Impulse 69 

The  Windjammer 71 


CONTENTS 


Page 

The  Stoker     * 73 

The  Peaceable  Min 76 

Fog          .........  78 

Repartee 80 

WESTERN  BALLADS 

The  Hills 85 

Nostalgia 87 

The  Exile 89 

The  Fancy  Shots 91 

And  Hallowell  Chawed        .....  94 

The  Prospector 96 

Pardners 98 

The  Thrall  of  the  Golden  Gate      .        .        .        .100 

The  Coward .103 

Playing  the  Game 105 

The  Sunset  Trail 107 

SONGS  OF  THE  COPPER  COUNTRY 

The  Smoke-Eater in 

The  Miner 113 

The  Teamster 115 

Driftwood 117 

The  Hard  Rock  Man 119 

The  Pumpman 121 

SONGS  OF  THE  LONG  TRAIL 

The  Proper  Setting 125 

The  Song  of  the  Rail 128 

The  Wander  Trail 129 


CONTENTS 


Page 
Chant  Royal  of  the  Tramp  Royal        .        .        .130 

The  Pioneers 133 

Autumn  Magic 134 

Our  Lady  of  Change 136 

Ulysses 137 

The  Restless  Legion 138 

Women 140 


SONGS  OF  THE  TRUE  ROMANCE 

Bohemia 143 

To  a  Photographer 145 

The  Reformer 146 

The  Song  of  the  Aeronaut 147 

The  Deserter 149 

The  Mother 151 

The  Ghost  of  Pete  McCluskey      ....  152 

The  Adventurer 154 

Spring  in  the  City 155 

The  Telephone  Directory 156 

The  Phonograph 157 

The  Living  Epitaph 160 


SONGS   OF  THE   WORKADAY  WORLD 


SONGS    OF   THE    W  G  RK  A  D  A  Y,  W  O  RL-D 


THE  MIRACLE  WORKER 

THE  "Dreamers  of  Empire"  travel  in  style 
On  a  glitterin'  palace  car, 
An*  they  look  with  a  dignified,  scornful  smile 

On  the  kind  of  men  we  are; 
They  pay  us  the  smallest  pay  they  dare 

An*  call  us  a  "frowsy  crew." 
But  they  know — an*  a  hell  of  a  lot  they  care — 
We're  making  their  dream  come  true. 

Work  and  women  an*  fight, 

Dice  an*  women  an*  drink; 
A  spree  on  pay  day  night 

A  day  or  two  in  the  clink — 
A  fine  old  life  to  live, 

An*  a  low  down  life,  says  you? 
But  we  ain't  dreamin'  no  dreams  ourselves, 

We're  makin'  your  dreams  come  true. 


Presidents  ponder  an'  managers  scheme, 

But  we  are  the  guys  who  sweat 
Creatin'  the  real  thing  outen'  the  dream 

An'  doin'  it  right,  you  bet! 
We  loaf  when  we  kin  and  work  when  we  must, 

Our  morals  is  mighty  few, 
But  winter  an*  summer,  snow  er  dust, 

We're  makin'  the  dream  come  true. 
[15] 


SONGS    OFT  HE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  MIRACLE  WORKER  (continued) 

Hogan  an*  Schmitz  an*  Jones, 

Levisich,  Schwank,  LeBeau, 
Talkin'  in  heavy  tones 

Wotever  Lingo  they  know; 
Dago  an*  French,  an*  Russ, 

Irish  an*  English,  too — 
Hairy  an'  hard  an'  coarse  an*  rough, 

Makin'  the  dream  come  true! 

There  ain't  no  medals  run  off  for  us, 

We're  tickled  to  get  our  pay, 
An'  there  ain't  no  papers  making  a  fuss 

When  some  of  us  pass  away ; 
We're  nothin'  but  hoboes  from  hobo  town 

Puttin'  the  railroad  through, 
Cuttin'  the  cliffs  an'  the  mountains  down, 

An'  makin'  the  dream  come  true. 

The  big  bugs  git  the  cash 

An'  most  of  the  praise  an'  fame: 
We  git  our  pay  an'  our  daily  hash 

An'  nobody  knows  our  name. 
But  it's  all  in  the  chance  we  take 

The  job  that  we've  got  to  do, 
We  haven't  no  time  fer  dreams  ourselves, 

We're  makin'  your  dream  come  true. 


[16] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


THE  STEEL-WORKER 

WHEREVER  new  bridges  are  flinging 
Their  spider-web  skein  to  the  skies ; 
Where  the  steel  ships  are  made  for  the  business  of 

trade ; 

Where  the  skyscrapers  gauntly  arise; 
Where  the  cranes  lift  the  twenty-ton  girders 

And  the  red  rivets  hiss  through  the  air — 
From  Chile  to  Nome  and  from  China  to  Rome, 
The  steel-worker's  sure  to  be  there. 

"Hey  you!" 

(So  the  foreman  said) 
"Watch  the  way  you're  doin*  there; 

Use  your  bloomin*  head. 
Lower  her!    Now — let  'er  go! 

Ram  the  rivets  through." 
(That's  the  way  they  do  the  job, 

Do  it  proper,  too.) 

This  week  you  will  find  him  on  Broadway 

Some  forty  floors  upward  or  so, 
Where  the  men  seem  to  crawl  on  just  nothing  at  all 

When  you  watch  from  the  sidewalk  below. 
Next  week  he'll  be  starting  for  Egypt, 

This  viewer  of  cities  and  men, 
With  his  money  all  spent  he  is  fully  content 

So  long  as  he's  moving  again. 
[17] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  STEEL-WORKER  (continued) 

"Hey  you!" 

(Hear  the  foreman  call) 
"Swing  her  over — hold  her  there! 

Hoist  a  bit— that's  all. 
Drop  her  now,  but  drop  her  slow. 

Now  you've  got  her  true." 
(That's  the  way  they  do  the  job, 
Do  it  proper,  too.) 

His  passport's  the  card  of  his  union 

Wherever  he  happens  to  land, 
His  home  is  the  spot  where  a  job's  to  be  got, 

For  the  skill  of  his  head  and  his  hand; 
No  task  is  too  distant  to  tackle, 

No  chance  too  outlandish  or  dim; 
He  carelessly  goes  like  the  wind  as  she  blows, 

And  the  world  has  no  terrors  for  him. 

"Hey  you!" 

(Hear  the  foreman  shout) 
"Watch  that  girder  overhead! 

Clear  the  Way— LOOK  OUT! 
Hi,  you  fool,  get  out  o'  that! 

Almost  got  him — whew!" 
(That's  the  way  they  do  the  job, 
Do  it  proper,  too.) 


[18] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


THE  JUNGLE  JOB 

I  SAID  to  myself,  "I  am  through  pioneering, 
I'm  sick  of  the  wilderness,  lonely  and  rough, 
I'm  sick  of  the  grader's  camp  built  in  a  clearing, 

I'm  weary  of  laborers  hairy  and  tough ; 
I'm  tired  of  the  outfit — the  bed  and  the  ration — 

The  steam-shovel's  puffing,  the  shock  of  the  blast. 
I  want  to  go  back  where  there's  civilization, 
The  fun  and  the  frolic  I  knew  in  the  past. 

"The  life  that  has  savor  and  vim  in 

The  sights  and  the  noises  of  towns, 
The  laughter  and  lure  of  the  women, 

The  glitter  of  jewels  and  gowns; 
I'm  done  with  this  business  forever, 

I'm  off  to  see  'cities  and  men.' 
And,  once  I  have  landed,  I'll  never 

Come  back  to  the  jungle  again!" 

So  I  made  for  the  city  of  wonder  and  glamor — 

The  city  whose  glory  had  shone  in  my  dreams. 
I  plunged  with  delight  in  its  hurry  and  clamor, 

Its  welter  of  hopes  and  ambitions  and  schemes. 
I  reveled  again  in  its  food  and  its  raiment, 

The  music  and  lights  and  the  gay-hearted  mirth, 
And  I  said  to  myself,  "There  is  no  form  of  payment 

Can  tempt  me  again  to  the  outposts  of  earth!" 

[19] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  JUNGLE  JOB  (continued) 

But  in  spite  of  the  pleasuring  places', 

In  spite  of  the  vast  city's  thrill, 
The  spell  of  the  unconquered  places 

Came  following  after  me  still; 
At  night  it  would  suddenly  wake  me, 

By  day  it  would  whisper — and  then 
I  knew  it  was  trying  to  make  me 

Come  back  to  the  jungle  again, 

I  had  thought  that  the  splendors  of  cities  would  tame 
me; 

I  fought  with  the  thrall  of  a  life  I  reviled ; 
But  the  lure  of  the  game  I  had  played  overcame  me — 

The  battle  with  nature  far  out  in  the  wild ! 
The  fleshpots  were  sweet — but  they  never  could  hold 
me. 

I  packed  up  my  kit  and  I  made  for  the  trail, 
And  now  I  believe  what  the  old-timers  told  me, 

The  spell  of  the  wilderness  never  can  fail ! 

I'm  back  to  the  "furthermost  f arness," 

I'm  way,  way  "ahead  of  the  steel" ; 
I'm  wearing  my  engineer's  harness, 

The  gravel  is  under  my  heel; 
The  dreams  of  the  city  still  bind  me, 

The  call  of  it  comes  to  my  ken, 
Yet  somehow  I  left  it  behind  me, 

I'm  back  to  the  jungle  again! 


[20] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


THE  POWER  PLANT 

WHIRR!    Whirr!    Whirr!    Whirr! 
The  mighty  dynamos  hum  and  purr, 
And  the  blue  flames  crackle  and  glow  and  burn 
Where  the  brushes  touch  and  the  magnets  turn. 
Whirr!    Whirr!     Whirr!     Whirr! 
This  is  no  shrine  of  the  Things  That  Were, 
But  the  tingling  altar  of  live  To-day, 
Where  the  modern  priests  of  the  "Juice"  hold  sway; 
Where  the  lights  are  born  and  the  lightnings  made 
To  serve  the  needs  of  the  world  of  trade. 

Whirr!    Whirr!    Whirr!    Whirr! 

The  white  lights  banish  the  murky  blurr, 

And  over  the  city,  far  and  near, 

The  spell  extends  that  was  conjured  here, 

While  down  in  the  wheel-pits,  far  below, 

The  water  whirls  in  a  ceaseless  flow — 

Foaming  and  boiling,  wild  and  white, 

In  a  passionate  race  of  tireless  might, 

Rushing  ever  the  turbines  through, 

And  making  the  dream,  the  Dream  come  true! 

Whirr!    Whirr!     Whirr!     Whirr! 
The  dynamos  croon  and  hum  and  purr, 
And  over  the  city's  myriad  ways 
The  jeweled  lights  all  burst  ablaze, 
And  the  peak-load  comes  on  the  burdened  wires 
As  the  folk  rush  home  to  their  food  and  fires ! 

[21] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  POWER  PLANT  (continued) 

Whirr!    Whirr!     Whirr!     Whirr! 

This  is  the  heart  of  the  city's  stir, 

Here  where  the  dynamos  croon  and  sing, 

Here  where  only  the  "Juice"  is  King, 

Where  the  switchboard  stands  in  its  marble  pride, 

And  the  tender  watches  it,  argus-eyed; 

Where  Death  is  harnessed  and  made  to  serve 

By  keen-faced  masters  of  brain  and  nerve; 

This  is  the  shrine  of  the  God  That  Works, 

Driving  away  the  mists  and  murks, 

Turning  the  lightnings  into  use. 

This  is  the  shrine  of  the  mighty  "Juice," 

Flowing  ever  the  long  wires  through, 

And  making  the  dream,  the  Dream  come  true ! 


[22] 


SONGS    OF    THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 


THE   WOP 

WHEN  the  line  is  surveyed  through  the  scenery, 
For  tunnel  and  culvert  and  cut — 
When  the  contractor  has  his  machinery 

The  "big  job"  is  ready— all  but— 
"All  but"  means  the  shovel  and  pick  of  it — 

The  hunkies  who  work  till  they  drop. 
And  so,  in  the  dust  and  the  thick  of  it, 
Look  for  the  Wop! 

The  big  bosses  bear  all  the  fret  of  it— 
They  are  the  fellows  who  plan ; 

But  the  backbreaking  strain  and  the  sweat  of  it 
Fall  to  the  laboring  man — 

Dago  and  Russ  and  Hungarian- 
All  of  the  immigrant  crop. 

Where  is  the  job  we  could  carry  on— 
Save  for  the  Wop? 

Subject  for  scorn  and  bedeviling ; 

Victim  of  fraud  and  chicane — 
Still,  with  his  spade  he  is  leveling 

Routes  over  mountain  and  plain. 
Progress?    His  soul  is  the  breath  of  it; 

Lacking  his  hand,  it  would  stop. 
Facing  the  danger  and  death  of  it, 
Here  is  the  Wop! 

He  knows  the  toughest  and  worst  of  it; 
He  knows  the  hard-driven  toil, 
[23] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  WOP  (continued) 

The  ache  and  the  heat  and  the  thirst  of  it — 

Never  the  dream — or  the  spoil. 
Caves  and  explosions  make  mud  of  him — 

Who  cares  a  damn?    Let  him  flop! 
Progress  is  stained  with  the  blood  of  him — 
Only  a  Wop! 


1*4 1 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


H 


THE    SAND    HOG 

E'S  fifty  inches  round  the  chest, 

His  leather  lungs  are  sound, 
His  heart  must  stand  the  air  compressed 

In  caissons  underground ; 
With  pressure  hammering  his  ears, 

His  shovel  in  his  hand, 
He  works — in  several  atmospheres — 

And  burrows  in  the  sand. 


Beneath  the  "lock" 

He  spends  his  time. 
He  seeks  bedrock 

Through  silt  and  slime, 
And  blithely  takes 

His  chances  where 
For  us  he  makes 

A  Thoroughfare! 


The  job  would  never  have  a  start 
Without  the  Draughtsman's  wit, 

The  Iron-Worker  does  his  part, 
The  Mason  adds  a  bit ; 

They  do  their  work — remember  that— 
But  also  please  recall, 

The  Sand  Hog  certainly  is  at 
The  bottom  of  it  all. 
[25] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  SAND  HOG  (continued) 

When  he  is  through 

Right  on  his  heel 
May  come  the  crew 

With  stone  and  steel; 
But  till  he's  done 

They  wait  their  day, 
For  he's  the  one 

Who  clears  the  way. 

The  Engineer  says,  "Go  ahead," 

The  Sand  Hog  wiggles  down, 
In  tunnels  through  the  river  bed, 

Or  subways  in  the  town; 
Through  quicksand,   gravel,   rock  and  mud, 

With  death  itself  to  dare, 
(From  falling  rock  or  sudden  flood) 

He  digs  a  thoroughfare. 

When  moisture  seeps 

Through  chink  and  crack, 
And  all  that  keeps 

The  water  back 
Is  air — just  air — 

He  doesn't  shirk, 
The  job  is  there — 

And  that's  his  work! 

Because  he  toils  and  sweats  below, 

In  steam  and  dripping  heat, 
The  tall  steel  buildings  rise  and  throw 

Their  shadows  on  the  street. 
[26] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 

THE  SAND  HOG  (continued) 

For  tubes  in  which  the  millions  ride 

To  do  their  work  each  day, 
For  bridges  flung  across  the  tide, 

The  Sand  Hog  clears  the  way! 

"A  hero"— you 

Would  say,  perhaps? — 
He's  like  a  slew 

Of  other  chaps, 
Who  only  ask 

Their  daily  pay; 
Who  do  their  task — 

And  clear  the  way! 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


THE  THINKER 

BACK  of  the  beating  hammer 
By  which  the  steel  is  wrought, 
Back  of  the  workshop's  clamor 

The  seeker  may  find  the  Thought, 
The  Thought  that  is  ever  master 

Of  iron  and  steam  and  steel, 
That  rises  above  disaster 
And  tramples  it  under  heel! 


The  drudge  may  fret  and  tinker 

Or  labor  with  dusty  blows, 
But  back  of  him  stands  the  Thinker, 

The  clear-eyed  man  who  Knows ; 
For  into  each  plow  or  sabre, 

Each  piece  and  part  and  whole, 
Must  go  the  Brains  of  Labor, 

Which  gives  the  work  a  soul! 


Back  of  the  motors  humming, 

Back  of  the  belts  that  sing, 
Back  of  the  hammers  drumming, 

Back  of  the  cranes  that  swing, 
There  is  the  eye  which  scans  them 

Watching  through  stress  and  strain, 
There  is  the  Mind  which  plans  them — 

Back  of  the  brawn,  the  Brain! 
[28] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  THINKER  (continued) 

Might  of  the  roaring  boiler, 

Force  of  the  engine's  thrust, 
Strength  of  the  sweating  toiler, 

Greatly  in  these  we  trust. 
But  back  of  them  stands  the  Schemer, 

The  Thinker  who  drives  things  through; 
Back  of  the  Job — the  Dreamer 

Who's  making  the  dream  come  true! 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


THE  DEAD   REPORTER 

HIS  typewriter's  covered  and  silent,  his  chair 
Is  empty,  his  desk  is  in  trim ; 
It  never  was  so  when  he  used  to  sit  there 

And  hammer  out  "copy"  with  vim. 
The  cigarette  stubs  that  he  left  in  a  row 

Are  gone,  and  the  table  is  clean, 
But  give  me  the  mess  that  the  place  used  to  show, 
And  the  click  of  his  busy  machine. 

He  used  to  come  in  with  his  hat  on  his  ear 

And  a  limp  cigarette  on  his  lip, 
With  a  smile  that  was  crooked,  an  eye  that  was  clear 

And  a  tongue  that  was  fluent  and  flip. 
He'd  hang  up  his  coat  on  the  hook  overhead, 

Tilt  his  chair  to  the  proper  degree, 
Run  his  hands  through  his  hair,  which  was  curly  and 

red, 
And  write  like  a  cyclone  set  free. 

And  sometimes,  when  pegging  away,  I  forget 

That  he  isn't  one  of  us  still, 
And  I'll  start  to  say,  "Jim,  got  a  good  cigarette?" 

And  turn  toward  his  battered  old  "mill," 
And  then  I'll  remember  that  "30"  is  in 

For  him  who  once  sat  in  that  spot, 
And — well,  I  redouble  my  hurry  and  din 

In  writing  the  story  I've  got. 
[30] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  DEAD  REPORTER  (continued) 

His  fingers  will  nevermore  clatter  the  keys, 

His  life  and  his  stories  are  done — 
Those  stories  as  brisk  as  the  keen  western  breeze — 

Another  will  take  up  his  run. 
Another  will  cover  assignments  he  had. 

He's  gone,  but  the  world  mustn't  lose 
Its  tales  of  the  sad  and  the  bad  and  the  glad, 
Its  regular  quota  of  "news." 

A  newspaper  man's  always  moving  about 

He  seldom  stays  long  in  a  place; 
And  yet  when  he  leaves,  why  you  haven't  a  doubt 

That  you'll  see  him  again,  face  to  face; 
But  this — well,  it's  different,  this  is  the  end, 

And  the  office  won't  seem  just  the  same. 
My  "fellow  reporter" — and  also  my  friend — 

Is  through  with  the  newspaper  game. 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


THE    WORKER 

1HAVE  broken  my  hands  on  your  granite, 
I  have  broken  my  strength  on  your  steel, 
I  have  sweated  through  years  for  your  pleasure, 

I  have  worked  like  a  slave  for  your  weal. 
And  what  is  the  wage  you  have  paid  me? 

You  masters  and  drivers  of  men — 
Enough  so  I  come  in  my  hunger 
To  beg  for  more  labor  again! 

I  have  given  my  manhood  to  serve  you, 

I  have  given  my  gladness  and  youth; 
You  have  used  me,  and  spent  me,  and  crushed  me, 

And  thrown  me  aside  without  ruth; 
You  have  shut  my  eyes  off  from  the  sunlight, 

My  lungs  from  the  untainted  air, 
You  have  housed  me  in  horrible  places 

Surrounded  by  squalor  and  care. 

I  have  built  you  the  world  in  its  beauty, 

I  have  brought  you  the  glory  and  spoil, 
You  have  blighted  my  sons  and  my  daughters, 

You  have  scourged  me  again  to  my  toil. 
Yet  I  suffer  it  all  in  my  patience, 

For  somehow  I  dimly  have  known 
That  some  day  the  Worker  will  conquer 

In  a  world  that  was  meant  for  his  own! 


[32] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 


LEATHER    LEGGIN'S 


WHIN  you  want  to  build  a  railroad  through  the 
jungle  or  the  veldt 

Where  there's  niver  anybody  bin  before, 
Why  you  call  on  Leather  Leggin's,  an*  he  hitches  up 

his  belt 

An*  he  takes  it  as  his  ordinary  chore 
To  go  slashin'  through  the  forests,  where  the  monkeys 

chatter  shrill, 

An'  the  lazy  snakes  are  hissin*  down  below, 
Or  to  drag  a  chain  an*  transit  over  gulch  and  grassy 

hill, 
As  he  marks  the  route  the  right-av-way  will  go! 


He's  a  nervy,  wiry  divil,  with  his  notebook  an*  his 

livil, 

An'  he  doesn't  seem  to  know  the  name  av  fear, 
He's  a  sort  av  scout  av  Progress,  on  the  payroll  as  a 

civil — 
(Though  he  ain't  so  awful  civil,  if  you  say  it  on  the 

livil!) 
On  the  payroll  as  a  Civil  Engineer! 


Whin  you  need  to  dam  a  river,  or  to  turn  it  upside 

down, 

Or  to  tunnel  underneath  it  in  the  mud, 
[33l 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

LEATHER  LEGGIN'S  (continued) 

Or  to  bore  an*  blast  a  subway  through  the  innards  av 

a  town, 

Or  to  blow  aside  a  mountain  with  a  thud ; 
When  you  want  to  bridge  a  canyon  where  there  ain't 

no  place  to  cling, 

An*  the  cliffs  is  steep  an*  smoother  than  a  wall, 
Why,  you  call  on  Leather  Leggin's,  an*  he  does  that 

little  thing, 
An*  then  comes  around  an*  asks  you,  "Is  that  all?" 


Oh,  he  always  has  a  fire  in  his  old  an*  blackened  briar, 

An*  he  tackles  anny  job  that  may  appear, 
An*  he  does  it  on  the  livil,  this  here  divil  of  a  Civil — 
(Though  he  ain't  so  very  civil,  if  you  put  it  on  the 

livil!) 
This  here  divil  av  a  Civil  Engineer! 


Now  the  bankers  down  in  Wall  Street  gits  the  profits 

whin  it's  done, 

While  us  heavy-futted  diggers  gits  the  can, 
But  we  lifts  our  hats  respectful  to  the  Ingineer,  my 

son, 

For  that  feller,  Leather  Leggin's,  is  a  Man! 
Yes,  he  takes  a  heap  o*  chances,  and  he  works  like 

Billy  Hell, 

An*  his  job  is  neither  peaceable  nor  tame, 
But  you  bet  he  knows  his  business  an*  he  does  it 

mighty  well, 

An*  I  want  to  give  him  credit  for  the  same ! 
[34] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

LEATHER  LEGGIN'S  (continued) 

He  is  plucky— on  the  livil — and  you'll  niver  hear  him 

snivel, 

Though  Fate  does  her  best  to  put  him  in  the  clear, 
He's  the  Grit  that  niver  flinches — on  the  payroll  as  a 

Civil, 
(For  he's  sometimes  pretty  civil,  an'  he's  always  on 

the  livil!) 
On  the  payroll  as  a  Civil  Engineer! 


I35l 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


GRATITUDE 

sent  me  out  in  the  wilderness  to  build  'em  a 
A       power  plant, 
Where  there  wasn't  a  rail  in  thirty  miles  and  the  trails 

were  rough  and  scant; 
They  sent  me  out  with  a  trapper's  map,  and  a  husky, 

healthy  gang, 
That  lived  and  worked  from  day  to  day  and  let  all 

else  go  hang. 
There  wasn't  a  sign  of  a  wagon  road  and  the  trail  was 

a  rocky  track, 
And  we  had  to  take  machines  apart  in  pieces  a  mule 

could  pack. 
So,  slow  and  careful,  we  hiked  along — and  gee,  what  a 

weary  tramp, 
Till  we  reached  the  place  I  had  planned  the  dam,  and 

there  we  made  our  camp. 

The  sad  coyotes  howled 

Like  some  uncanny  choir, 
And  bear  and  wildcat  prowled 

Beyond  our  sleeping  fire, 
But  we — in  slumber  deep, 

We  lay  the  whole  night  through, 
For  men  must  get  their  sleep, 

When  they  have  work  to  do. 

The  ice  came  down  with  the  winter,  the  floods  came 
down  with  the  spring, 

[36] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

GRATITUDE  (continued) 

And  we  fought  with  that  raging  river  as  you  fight  with 
a  living  thing. 

And  we  heckled  the  fat  directors,  back  there  in  the 
busy  town, 

For  they  kept  trying  to  stir  us  up,  while  keeping  ex 
penses  down. 

Whatever  supplies  we  needed,  of  lumber,  cement,  or 
steel, 

I  had  to  beg  and  pray  for  in  many  a  wild  appeal. 

And  while  we  were  bucking  nature,  in  tempest  and 
cold  and  heat, 

The  fat  directors  wired  me,  "Why  isn't  the  job  com 
plete?" 

They'd  fume  and  fuss  and  fret, 

And  scold  and  interfere, 
While  we — we  simply  sweat, 

And  tried  to  keep  our  cheer. 
In  spite  of  doubt,  delay, 

And  fat  directors,  too, 
We  went  right  on  our  way, 

For  we  had  work  to  do. 

They  sent  me  out  in  the  wilderness  to  build  'em  a 

power  plant, 
And  it's  running  now  as  it  ought  to  be,  though  some 

folks  said,  "It  can't!" 
And  now  that  everything's  smooth  and  fine,  they've 

fastened  a  can  to  me, 
And  they've  put  in  a  brand-new  graduate,  with  a  nice, 

fresh,  school  degree. 

[37] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

GRATITUDE  (continued) 

But  say,  it  was  fun  while  the  job  was  on — a  regular 

man's  size  game! — 
For  we  built  the  dam  and  power  plant,  in  spite  of  the 

bumps  that  came; 
So  the  boy  is  welcome  to  have  the  job,  and  sit  in  the 

office  chair — 
There's  a  power  plant  in  the  wilderness,  and  I — I  put 

it  there! 


[38] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 


THE  FOREST  RANGER 

I   AM  sitting  here  in  a  ranger's  hut  in  the  dusk  of  the 
glimmering  gloam, 
And  I'm  trying  to  make  myself  think  I  think  I'd  rather 

be  here  than  home ; 
And  I  tell  myself  of  my  "wild,  free  life  and  the  spell 

of  the  forest  wide, 
With  plenty  of  piney  air  to  breathe  and  a  mighty  good 

horse  to  ride." 
But  somehow  I  long  for  a  decent  house,  and  the  sight 

of  a  polished  floor, 
And  the  warm  embrace  of  a  leather  chair,  "as  it  was 

in  the  days  of  yore." 
No  longer  they  call  me  a  tenderfoot.     I  reckon  I've 

met  the  test, 
But  I'm  longing  now  for  the  effete  East  and  not  for 

the  Golden  West. 


I  am  sitting  here  in  a  ranger's  hut,  with  a  bulldog  pipe 
in  my  face, 

And  wishing  with  all  my  eager  soul  for  a  good  cigar 
in  its  place; 

And  though  the  suit  I  am  wearing  now  is  the  comfiest 
sort,  I  guess, 

I  wish  I  were  togged  in  the  stiffest  kind  of  conven 
tional  evening  dress, 

With  a  collar  as  high  as  the  style  allows  and  a  shirt 
of  vast  expanse, 

[39] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  FOREST  RANGER  (continued) 

Sitting  and  smoking  as  large  as  life  while  I  waited  to 

get  a  dance. 
Oh,  gee !    For  the  sight  of  the  dancing  crowd  and  the 

sound  of  a  ragtime  air, 
And  the  pretty  girls  with  their  pretty  gowns — and 

me  with  the  prettiest  there! 

I  am  sitting  here  in  a  ranger's  hut  and  the  tears  are  in 

my  eyes, 
Longing  for  all  of  the  useless  things  that  city  people 

prize. 

I'd  like  to  talk  to  a  fluffy  girl  with  a  lot  of  fluffy  chat, 
I'd  like  to  eat  with  seven  forks  and  a  bundle  of  stunts 

like  that. 
I  know  the  ways  of  the  forest  wild,  I  can  hold  my 

own  with  men, 
But  I'm  sick  to-night  for  a  taste  of  town  and  the  old 

fleshpots  again. 
I  reckon  the  forest  would  call  me  back — my  woodland 

paths  to  roam — 
But  I'm  sitting  here  in  a  ranger's  hut  and  wishing  that 

I  were  home! 


[40] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 


READY! 

HERE  we  are,  gentlemen ;  here's  the  whole  gang  of 
us, 

Pretty  near  through  with  the  job  we  are  on; 
Size  up  our  work — it  will  give  you  the  hang  of  us— 
South  to  Balboa  and  north  to  Colon. 
Yes,  the  canal  is  our  letter  of  reference ; 

Look  at  Culebra  and  glance  at  Gatun; 
What  can  we  do  for  you — got  any  preference, 
Wireless  to  Saturn  or  bridge  to  the  moon? 

Don't  send  us  back  to  a  life  that  is  flat  again, 

We  who  have  shattered  a  continent's  spine; 
Office  work — Lord,  but  we  couldn't  do  that  again! 

Haven't  you  something  that's  more  in  our  line? 
Got  any  river  they  say  isn't  crossable? 

Got  any  mountains  that  can't  be  cut  through? 
We  specialize  in  the  wholly  impossible, 

Doing  things  "nobody  ever  could  do!" 

Take  a  good  look  at  the  whole  husky  crew  of  us, 

Engineers,  doctors  and  steam-shovel  men; 
Taken  together  you'll  find  quite  a  few  of  us 

Soon  to  be  ready  for  trouble  again. 
Bronzed  by  the  tropical  sun  that  is  blistery, 

Chockful  of  energy,  vigor  and  tang, 
Trained  by  a  task  that's  the  biggest  in  history, 

Who  has  a  job  for  this  Panama  gang? 


[41] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


THE    HANDY    MAN 

SAID  Uncle  Sam,  "I've  got  a  job  for  some  good  man 
to  do," 
And  so  he  hired  an  engineer  who'd  done  a  thing  or 

two; 
He  gave  him  money,  tools  and  men  and  told  him,  "Go 

ahead ! 

You  cut  the  continent  in  two,  that's  all  I  ask,"  he  said. 
That  engineer  he  fussed  and  fumed  and  finally  he  quit, 
And  then  there  came  another  man  who  took  a  whack 

at  it; 
But  still  the  job  was  mighty  slow — and  slower  every 

year, 
Till  Uncle  Sam  he  went  and  got  an  Army  Engineer. 

Now  He  didn't  start  in  crying 

Of  the  handicaps  he  met, 
He  just  set  the  dirt  to  flying, 

And  the  dirt  is  flying  yet! 
Handled  money  by  the  million 

(But  each  dollar  counted  clear), 
For  he  wasn't  a  civilian , 

But  an  Army  Engineer! 

Said  Uncle  Sam,  "I  reckon  that  the  boys  I  teach  my 
self 

Are  something  more  than  ornaments  upon  the  parlor 
shelf. 

[42] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  HANDY  MAN  (continued) 

They  may  be  fond  of  uniforms  when  showing  on 

parade, 
But  when  they've  got  a  job  to  do  they're  worth  the 

wages  paid. 

I  show  an  army  man  the  work  and  let  it  go  at  that, 
And  when  I  think  of  it  again  the  job  is  finished — pat! 
He  doesn't  ask  fool  questions  and  he  doesn't  sniff  and 

sneer, 
But  he  knows  his  business  proper — does  the  Army 

Engineer !" 

For  he  isn't  playing  double, 

And  he  isn't  full  of  tricks, 
And  he  keeps  himself  from  trouble 

And  from  peanut  politics. 
There  is  neither  man  nor  devil 

That  can  throw  him  out  of  gear, 
He  is  strictly  on  the  level, 

Is  the  Army  Engineer. 

Said  Uncle  Sam,  "I  reckon  if  I  told  him  he  should  try 
He  would  build  a  bridge  of  moonbeams  from  the  ocean 

to  the  sky, 
He  would  tie  the  worlds  together  in  a  harness  made 

of  light, 
And  he  wouldn't  advertise  it — but  the  job  would  be 

all  right! 
I  don't  want  to  be  a  boaster,  but  this  army  lad  of 

mine 

Is  about  the  finest  ever  in  his  own  peculiar  line; 
He's  the  kind  that  you  can  swear  by,  he's  the  kind  that 

you  can  cheer, 

He's  a  quiet  peacherino,  is  the  Army  Engineer! 

[43] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  HANDY  MAN  (continued) 

He  is  keen  and  he  is  canny 

(Grafters  call  him  quite  a  snob) 
And  there's  no  one's  got  his  nanny, 

'Cause  he's  always  on  the  job. 
When  the  others,  all  defeated, 

Call  the  thing  a  failure  sheer, 
Why,  we  get  the  job  completed 

By  the  Army  Engineer! 


I44l 


SONGS  OF  THE  INLAND  SEAS 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 


THE    REASON 

WHENEVER  there's  a  chance  to  snatch 
A  minute  on  the  sly 
I  loves  to  sprawl  upon  the  hatch 

An*  look  up  at  the  sky ; 
It  seems  so  soft  an'  blue  an*  deep, 
With  white  clouds  driftin'  slow, 
That  almost  I  kin  go  to  sleep 
With  gazin'  at  it  so. 

I  feels  the  engine's  steady  shake 

Like  some  big  giant's  stride, 
I  hears  the  combers  as  they  break 

An'  slap  against  the  side ; 
An'  I  forgets  the  fiery  pit 

Where  I  must  work  my  shift, 
An'  lies  an'  simply  dreams  a  bit 

An'  lets  my  fancies  drift. 

I  lies  there,  drowsin'  as  we  plow 

Acrost  the  inland  sea, 
An'  kind  of  thinkin':   "Anyhow, 

There's  guys  worse  off  than  me. 
Fer  all  the  lakes  we  rides  is  mine 

To  sail  on  when  I  will; 
In  days  of  storm  er  days  of  shine, 

When  winds  is  warm  er  chill." 

An'  so,  away  from  heat  an'  soot, 
I'm  happy,  after  all, 
[47] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 

THE  REASON  (continued) 

Till  by-an'-by  there  comes  a  hoot 

An*  I'm  the  guy  they  call. 
An*  some  one  kicks  me  in  the  neck 

An'  swears  a  streak  as  well, 
An'  I  must  leave  the  sunny  deck 

An*  go  back,  down  to  hell. 


[48] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


ERIE 

SHE'S  shallow  an*  muddy  an*  mean, 
She's  chuck  full  of  sandbars  an*  such, 
She's  pretty  when  ca'm  an'  serene, 

But  she's  never  that  way  very  much. 
You  hardly  kin  sail  by  the  chart, 

Her  shoals  keep  a-shiftin'  around, 
You'll  think  that  you  know  her  by  heart, 
When — crunch — an*  yer  boat  is  aground ! 

She's  blowsy  an'  bleary 

An*  nasty — is  Erie, 
An'  allus  just  ripe  fer  a  squall, 

She  makes  us  all  weary 
An'  ugly,  does  Erie, 
The  meanest  old  lake  of  them  all. 

Superior's  icy  an*  rough, 

An'  Huron  is  ugly  at  times; 
Old  Michigan's  frequently  tough, 

But  fer  faults,  misdemeanors  an*  crimes, 
Old  Erie — out  there  in  the  east — 

Has  got  'em  all  distanced  in  style. 
She's  a  most  undependable  beast 

With  a  temper  that's  certainly  vile. 

You  want  to  be  leery 
An'  careful  of  Erie; 
[49] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 

ERIE  (continued) 

She's  husky,  although  she  is  small — 
A  pugnacious  dearie — 
A  fighter — is  Erie — 
The  meanest  old  lake  of  them  all! 

She's  choppy  an*  fickle  an*  slick ; 

One  minute  she's  sweet  as  a  dream, 
The  next — she'll  be  makin'  you  sick 

An*  standin'  the  ship  on  her  beam. 
The  wind-jammers  hates  her  like  sin, 

The  steamers  is  fond  of  her — not — 
She'd  ought  to  be  pinched  an'  run  in, 

She's  the  wickedest  one  of  the  lot. 

So  don't  get  too  cheery 

Or  flip  with  Lake  Erie, 
She's  primed  fer  a  bluff  or  a  brawl, 

Fer  sailin*  is  skeery 

An*  risky  on  Erie, 
The  meanest  old  lake  of  them  all ! 


1 50] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


THE   SKIPPER 

YOU  kin  take  it  from  yours  truly  that  I  haven't  no 
ambition 

For  to  be  the  boss  an*  skipper  of  a  craft, 
Though  I  know  there's  lots  of  fellers  that  considers 

the  position 

Is  a  mighty  easy  sinecure,  a  graft. 
I  know  it  looks  so  simple  it's  a  shame  to  take  the 

money — 

That  the  skipper  never  seems  to  do  a  thing ; 
But  you  bet  your  bottom  dollar  that  the  job  ain't  milk 

an'  honey, 
Which  is  reason  for  the  ditty  that  I  sing. 

When  the  ship  is  buckin'  combers  that  is  threatenin' 

to  break  her, 

When  she's  rollin'  in  the  trough  or  on  the  ridge, 
When  the  scared  an'  shakin'  wheelsman  is  a-callin'  on 

his  Maker, 

An'  the  waves  is  throwin'  showers  on  the  bridge. 
Then  the  skipper's  work  is  risky,  an'  it  isn't  dry  an* 

prosy, 

For  he's  got  a  ship  to  handle  an*  to  guide, 
While  the  crew  is  mostly  sheltered  in  the  deck-house 

warm  an'  cosy, 
An'  the  wind  is  makin'  trouble  far  an'  wide. 

There's  a  log  that  must  be  posted,  there's  a  cargo  list 

for  keepin', 

There's  three  thousand  tons  of  freighter  on  his  mind. 
U'J 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  SKIPPER  (continued) 

There's  the  chances  he  is  takin*  when  the  ship  is  slowly 

creepin' 

Through  a  fog  that  makes  you  feel  ye're  goin'  blind. 
There's  the  bitter  winter  watches  when  the  bridge  is 

frozen  solid 

An*  the  wind  is  stabbin'  at  him  with  a  knife, 
An'  the  skipper  simply  stands  it — lookin'  satisfied  an* 

stolid, 
But  I  ain't  exactly  envyin'  his  life. 

An'  if  the  hooker's  sinkin',  an'  the  boats  is  smashed 

an'  battered, 

It's  the  skipper  who  must  be  the  last  to  leave ; 
An'  if  he  bumps  a  hidden  reef  his  whole  career  is  shat 
tered 

An'  his  reputation's  gone  beyond  retrieve. 
You  can  take  it  from  yours  truly  I  don't  want  to  be  a 

skipper 

In  spite  of  all  the  salary  he  makes, 
For  I  haven't  got  his  worries  an'  I'm  feelin*  pretty 

chipper 
As  an  ordinary  seaman  on  the  lakes. 


[52] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


THE  MAGIC  WHISTLE 


I   HEARD  a  steamer  whistle  at  its  pier  awhile  ago, 
Heard  its  giant  voice  a-quiver,  hoarse  and  deep 

and  very  slow, 
Through  the  window  of  my  office  came  the  rumble 

loud  and  clear, 
And  it  moved  me  as  a  song  would,  some  old  song  I 

used  to  hear. 
And  I  looked  up  from  my  writing  to  the  smoky  city 

skies, 
And  a  misty,  hazy  vision  seemed  to  form  before  my 

eyes 
Of  a  freighter,  heavy  loaded,  nosing  past  the  harbor 

stakes 
Like  the  old  "Eulalie"  used  to  when  I  decked  it  on 

the  Lakes. 


Every  time  a  steamer  whistles  with  that  mighty  rum 
bling  roar, 

It  brings  back  the  recollection  of  the  days  that  are 
no  more, 

When  my  kit  was  in  my  pocket,  and  I  didn't  have  a 
cent, 

And  the  wages  of  a  voyage  slowly  came  and  swiftly 
went; 

When  my  body  was  of  rubber  and  of  hickory  and 
steel, 

And  I  knew  the  way  to  labor  and  to  put  away  a  meal, 

[531 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  MAGIC  WHISTLE  (continued) 

For  I  didn't  live  on  "health-foods,"  such  as  wheat  and 

barley  flakes, 
On  the  sturdy  old  "Eulalie,"  when  I  decked  it  on  the 

Lakes! 

Hear  that  whistle  rumble,  rumble  like  a  giant  with  a 

cold— 
Now  the  old  ship's  on  the  junk  heap,  and  I  guess  I'm 

growing  old. 
Once  my  kit  was  in  my  pocket — now  I  travel  with  a 

trunk; 
Now  I'm  owned  by  clothes  and  servants  and  a  lot  of 

useless  junk, 
And  I  couldn't  swing  a  shovel,  lift  a  hatch  or  push  a 

swab, 
And  I'm  soft  and  fat  and  flabby,  and  I  couldn't  hold  a 

job. 
Yet  that  whistle  stirs  and  thrills  me,  and  my  heart  it 

aches  and  aches, 
For  the  sturdy  old  "Eulalie"  when  I  decked  it  on  the 

Lakes. 


f54l 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


THE    PACKET    BOAT 


N 


EVER  no  rest, 

Never  no  sleep, 
Say,  it  would  make 

Any  Chinaman  weep. 
Pull  outa  dock 

Lie  down  an*  snooze — 
Land  in  another,  an* 
"No  time  to  lose!" 

Hustle  the  freight  out  like  devils  possessed, 
Never  no  sleep,  never  no  rest. 

Never  no  rest, 

Never  no  sleep, 
Say,  but  they're  gettin'  us 

Easy  an*  cheap; 
Loadin*  all  day  an* 

Unloadin'  all  night, 
Hittin'  the  hay 

By  the  dawn's  early  light, 

Then  comes  the  mate  an*  we  hops  from  our  nest, 
Never  no  sleep,  never  no  rest. 

Never  no  rest, 

Never  no  sleep, 
Stop  every  port 

An*  unload  in  a  heap. 
Deckhands  we  be, 

An*  dock  wallopers,  too, 
[55] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  PACKET  BOAT  (continued) 

Take  it  from  me 

We  got  plenty  to  do. 
Finest  of  packets  is  bad  at  the  best, 
Never  no  sleep,  never  no  rest. 

Never  no  rest, 

Never  no  sleep, 
Still,  we  ain't  got 

Any  protest  to  peep; 
All  we  are  good  fer 

Is  pushin'  a  truck — 
We  got  the  jobs 

An*  I  guess  we're  in  luck. 

So  here's  to  the  packet — the  packet  be — blessed! 
Never  no  sleep,  never  no  rest. 


[56] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 


THE   SIX-HOUR    SHIFT 
(Coal  Passer) 

I  STARTED  in  at  midnight,  I  been  workin'  twenty 
years, 

An*  yet  the  time  is  only  half  past  three; 
Above  the  roarin'  boilers  the  steam  gauge  sorto  sneers, 

As  if  it  was  a  handin'  things  to  me; 
Fer  the  steam  gauge  keeps  me  goin'  while  the  heavin' 

billers  roll, 

Keeps  me  wheelin'  to  the  bunkers  mighty  swift, 
Makes  me  hurry,  hurry,  hurry,  when  the  stokers  call 

fer  coal — 
Why,  it  seems  like  sixty  hours,  this  bloomin'  shift. 

Now,  by-and-by  the  dawn'll  break,  a  sorto  sickly  gray, 

But  I'll  be  sweatin'  here  when  it  has  come, 
An*  if  I  climb  up  to  the  deck  to  see  the  peep  o*  day, 

There'll  be  a  yell,  "Hi,  get  some  coal,  you  bum !" 
An'  after  seven  centuries  of  stewin*  here  in  hell, 

Of  shovelin'  of  fuel  by  the  ton, 

Of  dumpin*  smokin'  ashes — why,  I  hears  the  breakfast 
bell, 

An*  the  six-hour  shift  o'  passin'  coal  is  done. 

An'  if  I'm  mighty  lucky  I  may  get  a  chanct  to  sleep 
Till  the  cookee  rings  the  dinner  bell  at  noon, 

An'  then  I  got  another  shift  of  six  long  hours  to  keep, 
An'  of  workin'  like  an  overdriven  coon ; 
[57] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 

THE  SIX-HOUR  SHIFT  (continued) 

There  ain't  no  time  fer  dreamin',  er  fer  watchin*  of  the 

lakes — 

There  ain't  no  time  fer  talkin'  with  the  crew, 
It's  six  hours  off  an'  six  hours  on,  no  matter  how  you 

aches — 
An*  the  steam  gauge  allus  sneerin'  down  at  you. 


[58] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


THE  DOCK  WALLOPER 

BUFFALO  town — an*  a  cargo  to  load, 
Boxes  an'  bales  an'  such  truck  to  be  stowed, 
Piled  in  the  warehouses,  heaped  on  the  pier, 
Looks  like  a  job  that  would  take  'em  a  year. 
Does  it?    Well,  hardly,  for  soon  there's  a  gang 
Ready  to  stow  it,  not  givin'  a  hang; 
Look  at  him  now,  any  one  of  the  flock — 
Mr.  Dock  Walloper — there  on  the  dock. 

Good,  nervy  stock, 

Hard  as  a  rock, 

Strong  as  a  horse,  or  a  tackle  an'  block, 
Mr.  Dock  Walloper,  there  on  the  dock. 

Bossed  by  a  guy  that  is  tough  as  the  rest — 

Tougher,  I  reckon,  if  put  to  the  test, 

Gee,  but  they  tackle  that  mountain  of  freight — 

Barrel  an'  bundle,  an'  basket  an'  crate. 

Truck  wheels  are  squeakin',  the  tackle-rope  sings, 

Everyone's  cussin'  at  various  things, 

Gangways  an'  trucks  an' — well,  mostly  they  knock 

Mr.  Dock  Walloper,  there  on  the  dock. 

Good,  nervy  stock, 

Hard  as  a  rock, 

Strong  as  a  horse,  or  a  tackle  an'  block, 

Mr.  Dock  Walloper,  there  on  the  dock. 

[59] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  DOCK  WALLOPER  (continued) 

Mr.  Dock  Walloper  trots  right  along, 
Doin'  his  work  while  his  muscles  is  strong, 
Takin'  the  chances  of  danger  to  him, 
Gettin'  his  pay — which  is  pretty  damn  slim. 
Winches  an'  clam-shells  is  hurtin'  his  trade, 
Still,  there  ain't  any  machinery  made 
Quite  takes  the  place  of  this  husky  old  stock, 
Mr.  Dock  Walloper,  there  on  the  dock. 

Good,  nervy  stock, 

Hard  as  a  rock, 

Strong  as  a  horse,  or  a  tackle  an'  block, 
Mr.  Dock  Walloper,  there  on  the  dock. 


[60] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 


SU'GE 

(Su'ge  is  a  sort  of  soft  soap — very  strong — used  in 
cleaning  deck) 

IF  you  ever  got  busy  with  su'ge, 
You  know  what  I'm  talkin'  about, 
Fer  I'm  worn  to  a  wreck  with  my  scrubbin'  the  deck 

An*  I  gotta  keep  at  it,  no  doubt ; 
My  hands  is  all  crackin'  an'  peelin', 

My  back  is  fair  ready  to  break, 
But  I  ain't  got  the  gall  to  take  bucket  an'  all, 
An*  chuck  'em  kerplunk  in  the  lake. 

But  su'ge — say,  Mister, 

It's  steamin'  with  lye, 
Yer  hands  it'll  blister, 

Yer  arms  it'll  fry, 
An'  when  you  get  through — gee! 

The  mate  says,  "You  dub! 
Go  get  some  more  su'ge, 

More  su'ge — an'  scrub !" 

I  know  if  they  took  all  the  su'ge 

I  used  since  I  got  on  this  boat, 
An'   measured   the   stuff,   they'd   have   more  than 
enough 

To  keep  a  whole  navy  afloat. 
My  grub  is  all  tastin'  of  su'ge, 

My  pipe  smells  all  day  of  the  dope; 
An'  when  I'm  asleep  I  imagine  I'm  deep 

In  a  kettle  of  su'ge  an'  soap. 
[61] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 

SU'GE  (continued) 

Fer  su'ge  is  slimy 

An*  stronger  each  day. 
It  allus  is  by  me — 

I  can't  get  away. 
I  never  get  through.    Gee! 

I  scrape  an*  I  rub, 
An'  then  get  more  su'ge, 

More  su'ge  an*  scrub! 

I  ain't  got  no  pictures  of  Heaven, 

But  this  I  will  firmly  declare: 
If  Heaven's  a  place  where  the  deckhands  have  space, 

There  isn't  no  su'ge  up  there. 
But  hell  must  be  chuck  full  of  su'ge, 

With  millions  of  corners  to  swab, 
An'  if  I  should  go  to  that  country  below, 

I  sure  would  be  trained  fer  the  job. 

But  su'ge  I'm  hatin' 

Much  worser  than  jail, 
An'  just  fer  that,  Satan 

Would  hand  me  a  pail 
An'  say,  "Oh,  I  knew'd  ye, 

Ye  commonplace  dub, 
So  here's  some  more  su'ge ; 

Get  busy — an'  scrub!" 


[62] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 


CHRISTMAS   ON   THE   GREAT   LAKES 

DECK  is  just  a  slab  of  ice,  gunnels  plastered  white, 
Every  stay  is  covered  thick  with  a  winter  coat ; 
Christmas!     But  the  whistlin'  wind's  bitter  cold  to 
night, 

Glad  I'm  not  the  guy  up  there  pilotin*  the  boat. 
Hear  them  combers  slap  the  bow ;  bet  the  fly  in'  spray 

Freezes  on  his  overcoat,  as  his  watch  he  takes. 
Hark,  the  siren's  screamin'  out  in  her  fiendish  way, 
Gee,  but  it's  a  happy  time,  Christmas  on  the  Lakes ! 

Engines  throbbin'  steadily,  faithful-like  an*  true, 

Stoke-hole's  just  as  blazin'  hot  as  it  ever  were; 
Got  to  keep  the  gauges  up,  got  to  "push  her  through," 
Christmas  can't  delay  the  boat,  what's  the  day  to 

her? 
"Merry  Christmas,"  grins  the  mate,  when  his  face  he 

shows, 

Yellin'  to  us  on  the  decks,  as  the  mornin'  breaks, 
Then  he  calls  us  all  the  things  that  his  fancy  knows, 
That's  the  way  the  day  begins — Christmas  on  the 
Lakes. 


Cook  he  boils  a  hen  or  so,  makes  some  special  pie, 

Maybe  gives  us  puddin',  too,  like  we  got  at  home. 

(What  you  kind  of  winkin*  at — smoke  is  in  yer  eye? 

You   ain't   even   written  back   since   you   "hit   the 

foam.") 

[63] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

CHRISTMAS  ON  THE  GREAT  LAKES  (continued) 

We  ain't  got  no  sentiments,  guys  like  you  an*  me, 

We  ain't  ever  blue  an*  sad — lonesome  till  we  aches — 
We  ain't  wishin*  we  was  home,  round  the  Christmas 

tree — 

Naw,  we  love  a  night  like  this,  Christmas  on  the 
Lakes. 

Deck  is  just  a  slab  of  ice,  wind  is  shriekin'  shrill, 

Foc'sl's  full  of  smoke  an'  dust,  hot  an'  close  an'  foul. 
Yet  it's  kind  of  different,  everybody's  still, 

No  one  ain't  a-sayin'  much — hear  that  siren  howl. 
Maybe  they're  just  petered  out  fightin'  wet  an'  sleet, 
Maybe  they  are  dreamin*  dreams  such  as  mem'ry 

wakes, 
(Hear  the  combers  crash  an'  smash,  feel  the  engines 

beat) 

Ninety    miles    from    Mackinac — Christmas    on    the 
Lakes. 


[64] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


L'ENVOI 

WHEN  I've  finished  my  final  voyage  an'  taken  my 
latest  breath, 
An*  gone  to  the  strange  new  harbor  ye're  landed  in 

after  death, 
I  want  shore  leave  fer  a  while  er  so  in  the  city  of  the 

blest. 
(Providin'  that  is  the  port  I  hit,  an*  I'm  hopin'  fer  the 

best.) 
An*  then,  with  a  brand-new  outfit,  I'll  climb  back  over 

the  side, 
An'  sail  away  on  a  good  long  trip  acrost  the  heavenly 

tide 
With  a  mate  that  knows  his  business,  a  competent 

engineer — 
An'  me?    I'll  be  a  deckhand,  the  same  as  I  am  down 

here. 

But  the  work'll  be  dead  easy,  an*  most  of  the  time  I'll 

lie 
Propped   up   on   a   comfy   hatch-top,    a-watchin*  the 

clouds  go  by, 
With  the  steady  engines  beatin'  an'  keepin'  a  lively 

pace, 
An'  the  wind  of  the  open  water  a-blowin'  across  my 

face, 
An*  the  cook'll  ring  fer  dinner,   an'  we'll  all  come 

troopin*  in, 
To  a  meal  that  would  fill  you  with  joy  an'  bliss  an' 

make  a  dyspeptic  grin ; 

[65] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

L'ENVOI  (continued) 

An*  after  it's  done  we  kin  set  an*  smoke  while  the  good 

ship  drives  ahead, 
An*  thank  our  stars  that  we  ain't  alive,  but  only  happy 

an*  dead. 

The  pay  will  be  all  we've  wanted,  the  quarters  bet- 

ter'n  we  dream, 
We'll  touch  at  ports  like  the  Isles  of  Bliss,  where  the 

lights  is  all  agleam; 
Fer  I  know  I  wouldn't  be  happy  a-spendin'  my  time  on 

land, 
Not  even  there  in  Heaven,  on  the  beautiful  golden 

strand. 

So  I  think  the  Lord  will  fix  it  so  sailor  men  can  sail 
On  lakes  or  seas  like  they  used  to,  a  bravin'  the  storm 

an'  gale; 
Fer,  as  Mr.  Kipling  puts  it,  we  wouldn't  know  what 

to  do 
Without  no  seas  where  we  could  live  the  only  life  we 

knew. 


[66] 


SONGS    OF    DEEPWATER 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


THE  IMPULSE 

YER  crew  may  come  from  the  dregs  of  town, 
Kicked  an*  beaten  an*  hammered  down, 
But  show  'em  how  an'  drive  'em  hard, 
An'  they'll  carry  you  through  to  harbor,  pard; 
They'll  work  like  fiends  of  the  workin'  kind, 
An'  they'll  follow  you  anywhere,  follow  blind ; 
They'll  brave  a  storm  in  a  peanut  shell, 
If  the  pay  is  good  an'  you  feed  'em  well. 

They'll  cling  to  the  icy  decks  and  fight 
The  storm  an'  the  sleet  an'  the  snow  all  night ; 
They'll  patch  the  leaks  an'  they'll  mend  the  sails, 
They'll  take  a  chance  with  the  toughest  gales, 
They'll  man  the  pumps  through  a  hurricane, 
An'  laugh  an'  joke  as  the  rivets  strain, 
In  the  mighty  rush  of  the  heavin'  swell, 
If  you  pay  'em  good  an'  you  feed  'em  well. 

They'll  shovel  yer  coal  in  the  fire-hole  deep, 
They'll  work  long  shifts  with  little  sleep, 
They'll  lash  'emselves  to  the  whirlin'  wheel 
While  the  deck's  a-wash  an'  the  lanterns  reel, 
They'll  stand  the  drenchin'  of  frigid  waves, 
They'll  swear  like  truckmen  an'  toil  like  slaves, 
They'll  jump  to  the  job  at  yer  quickest  yell, 
If  you  pay  'em  good  an'  you  feed  'em  welL 

But  the  best  old  crew  that  kin  be  had 
Ain't  worth  a  cent  if  the  chuck  is  bad; 
[69] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 

THE  IMPULSE  (continued) 

They'll  growl  an*  grumble  an'  shirk  an*  grunt, 
They'll  bungle  over  the  simplest  stunt; 
But  give  'em  the  grub  an'  the  proper  pay, 
And  they'll  sail  you  anywhere,  anyway, 
They'd  steer  you  safe  through  the  fires  of  hell, 
If  you  paid  'em  good  an'  you  fed  'em  well. 


[70] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 


THE    WINDJAMMER 

THE  sailin'  ship's  full  of  the  greatest  romance" — 
You'll  read  that  somewhere  in  a  book. 
Romantic?    Why,  say,  Jack,  she  hasn't  a  chance — 

She  looks  like  a  frowsy  old  cook; 
Her  sails  is  all  patched  like  a  old  pair  of  pants, 

An*  that  don't  express  how  they  look. 
She's  gen'rally  snubnosed  an'  lackin'  of  paint — 
She's  useful,  all  right;  but  romantic  she  ain't. 

Say,  the  guy  that  would  want  to  put  her  in  a  song 

Would  call  a  plain  schooner  a  brig ; 
You'll  see  her  go  rootin'  an*  crawlin'  along 

With  about  as  much  grace  as  a  pig, 
Or  a  drunken  old  fishwoman  goin'  it  strong 

An'  tappin'  each  bar  fer  a  swig. 
You  can't  say  she's  handsome  er  noble  er  quaint — 
She's  useful,  all  right;  but  romantic  she  ain't. 

Her  decks  are  awash  an'  there's  lumber  on  top. 

She  squatters  along  like  a  duck, 

An'  she  "bams !"  through  the  waves  with  an  awkward 
"kerflop!" 

An'  she  grunts  at  the  waves  she  has  struck — 
She  acts  like  a  crazy  old  dame  with  a  mop 

That  splashes  around  in  the  muck, 
An'  sometimes  the  smell  of  her'd  make  you  grow  faint, 
She's  useful,  all  right;  but  romantic  she  ain't. 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  WINDJAMMER  (continued) 

When  swamped  she  will  cheerfully  settle — an'  ride, 

Held  up  by  the  lumber  she  totes, 
While  the  crew  an*  the  captain  sit  up  on  the  side 

Just  tickled  to  death  that  she  floats ; 
She  hasn't  no  grace  an'  she  hasn't  no  pride — 

She's  a  kind  of  a  hobo  of  boats. 
She  hasn't  much  manners,  er  sense,  er  restraint — 
She's  useful,  all  right;  but  romantic  she  ain't. 

So  take  it  from  me — as  I've  asked  you  before — 

The  windjammer's  nothin'  so  strange. 
Poetic?     Perhaps — like  a  general  store 

Er  the  nigger  cook's  new  galley  range ; 
I  worked  on  one  once — but  I  won't  any  more ; 

It  gave  me  the  scurvy — an'  mange. 
You  take  it  from  me,  though  I  hain't  no  complaint- 
She's  useful,  all  right;  but  romantic? — she  ain't. 


T72] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 


THE   STOKER 

WAY  down  below  the  lower  deck  an'  just  above  the 
keel 
Our  stoke-hole  crew  they  tramps  around  on  hard  and 

smokin'  steel, 

Right  in  a  glare  that  makes  you  blind,  a  heat  that 
makes  you  reel, 

We  feeds  the  blazin'  boilers  day  an'  night, 
We're  red  of  eye  an'  black  with  coal,  an'  though  the 

shift  is  short, 
The  sweat  of  workin'  in  that  hell  is  measured  by  the 

quart; 

This  stokin'  liners'  boilers  ain't  no  mollycoddle  sport, 
But  we  gotta  keep  the  boat  a-goin'  right. 

It's  shovel,  shovel,  shovel! 

An'  it's  sweat,  sweat,  sweat! 
With  the  heat  a-whoopin'  round  you 

An'  yer  hull  frame  wet; 
With  the  cinders  all  a-droppin' 

An'  the  grates  a-roar, 
As  they  seem  to  yell  for  fuel, 

Savin',  "More!     More!     More!" 

The  Captain  on  the  windy  bridge  is  something  grand 

to  see, 

An'  the  Engineer's  a  personage  as  great  as  he  can  be, 
But  the  tub  would  never  travel  if  it  weren't  fer  mugs 

like  me, 

The  guys  you  never  know  is  on  the  ship. 
[731 


SONGS   OP  THE  WORKADAY   WORLD 


7  HZ 


If  we  didn't  keep  on  stolon'  spite  of  all  the  sweat  an* 


If  we  didn't  feed  the  boflers,  what  die  devil  would 
Ifceydo? 

wouldn't  be  no  power  for  to  torn  the  bloomin' 


An*  there  wouldn't  be  no  record-breakin*  trip! 


Ifs  shovd,  shovel,  shovel! 

An'  it's  sweat,  sweat,  sweat ! 
We're  tryin'  to  cut  the  record 

An'  well  do  it  yet, 
While  the  draft  would  almost  suck  you 

Through  the  furnace  door, 
An'  the  hungry  grates  is  callin', 

"Give  00  more,  more,  more!" 


They  packs  us  down  in  gmi\ .  that  a  Chink  would 

n£j"i.y  s^-ar. 
An'  now  an'  then  they  condescends  to  let  us  breathe 


(When  the  passengers  ain't  lookin'  an'  there  ain't  a 
soul  to  care;) 

So  we  sweats  our  lives  in  the  service  to  the  Line, 
And  the  prize  for  all  our  labors  is  a  mighty  little  pay, 
An'  a  bunch  of  rotten  vhtks  diat  'ud  make  you  faint 


An'  the  end  is  very  simple—  there's  a  little  splash  of 


An'  another  stoker's  buried  in  the  brine  ! 
[74] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 

THE  STOKER  (continued) 

It's  shovel,  shovel,  shovel! 

An'  it's  sweat,  sweat,  sweat! 
It  ain't  no  merry  picnic, 

You  can  make  that  bet ; 
But  we  gotta  keep  the  pressure 

While  the  hot  grates  roar, 
Their  everlastin'  holler, 

"Give  us  more!  more!  more!" 


[751 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


THE  PEACEABLE  MIN 

FAHEY,  Mulcahey,  McCann, 
Dooley,  Gilhooley  an'  Flynn, 
Each  wan  a  good  Irish  man, 
All  of  thim  peaceable  min, 
Got  oft7  the  ship  fer  a  stroll, 

Wint  in  a  bar  for  a  dhrink, 
Each  of  thim  flashin*  a  roll 
Makin*  the  bartendher  blink. 

Prisintly  gathered  a  gang — 

Gang  that  was  certainly  tough, 
Rowin'  around  the  shebang, 

Cuttin'  up  ugly  an*  rough; 
Twinty-five  min  at  the  least 

Hovered  around  fer  to  rob, 
Plannin'  a  spree  an'  a  feast, 

Whin  they  had  finished  the  job. 

Somebody  started  a  fight, 

Somebody  pulled  out  a  knife, 
Trouble  was  surely  in  sight, 

There  was  a  row  fer  yer  life; 
Guns  all  a-wavinj  in  air, 

Shots  an'  a  smother  av  smoke, 
Manny  an  uplifted  chair, 

Manny  a  cranium  broke. 

Fahey,  Mulcahey,  McCann, 
Dooley,  Gilhooley  and  Flynn, 
[76] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 

THE  PEACEABLE  MIN  (continued) 
Each  wan  a  peaceable  man, 

Each  av  thim  unarmed  min, 
Did  just  the  best  that  they  could, 

Fightin'  their  way  to  the  door. 
Bar  was  a  sphlinter  av  wood, 

Glass  scattered  over  the  floor. 

Prisintly  all  things  was  sthill, 

Sthill  as  a  village  asleep, 
Thim  who  had  stharted  the  mill 

Lyin'  around  in  a  heap, 
Out  av  that  dump  came  the  clan, 

Smilin'  as  whin  they  came  in, 
Fahey,  Mulcahey,  McCann, 

Dooley,   Gilhooley  an*  Flynn! 


[771 


SONGS   OF  THE   WORKADAY   WORLD 


w 


FOG 

* 

HEN  the  fog-horn  blows 

With  its  "Hoo-oo!  Hoo-oo!  Hoo-oo!" 
Then  the  old  tub's  nose 

Just  goes  pokin'  through, 
Where  the  fog  hangs  thick 

An*  the  water's  gray, 
An*  it's  no  cinch  trick 

Fer  to  find  yer  way, 
An*  it's  slo-ow  she  goes, 
When  the  fog-horn  blows ! 

When  the  fog-horn  blows 

With  its  "Hoo-oo!     Hoo-oo!    Hoo-oo!" 
Do  you  suppose 
You  kin  snooze  er  doze? 
No — that  fog-horn  deep 

Hoots  the  hull  shift  long, 
An*  it  spoils  yer  sleep 

With  its  hoarse,  bass  song; 
You  kin  bet  you  knows 
When  the  fog-horn  blows. 

When  the  fog-horn  blows, 

With  its  "Hoo-oo!  Hoo-oo!  Hoo-oo!" 
Each  deck  light  grows 

Kind  of  dim  to  you, 
Kind  of  sick  an*  pale, 
An'  the  air  feels  stale, 
[78] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

FOG  (continued) 

An'  yer  heart  sinks  low, 
An*  you  hears  the  screw 
Turnin*  over — slo-ow — 
Fer  it's  slo-ow  she  goes 
When  the  fog-horn  blows! 

When  the  fog-horn  blows 

Why,  yer  ship  must  crawl, 
Where  the  compass  shows; 

An*  you  prays — that's  all, 
As  along  you  slide 

In  the  fog  an'  dark, 
That  you  don't  collide 

With  another — Hark! 
There's  a  ship,  "Hoo-oo!    Hoo-oo!" 
'Twas  her  fog-horn  blew ! 
Yes,  it's  "Hoo-oo!    Hoo-oo!    Hoo-oo!" 
"Look  out,  hoo-oo !    Hoo-oo !" 
It's  so  you  goes 
When  the  fog-horn  blows ! 


[791 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


REPARTEE 

SAYS  the  Captain  of  the  tugboat  to  the  skipper  of 
the  barge, 

"I  hain't  anything  against  you,  but,  to  take  you  by  an* 
large, 

Ye're  a  fuzzy-nosed  gorilla  that  is  always  crazy  drunk, 

An*  you  otta  be  a-runnin'  of  a  store  fer  sellin'  junk. 

Ye're  a  lubber  that  is  cross-eyed,  an'  yer  brain  is  buck 
wheat  cakes, 

An*  I  guess  the  way  you  got  here — someone  wished 
you  on  the  Lakes — 

If  they  sold  you  fer  a  nickel  it  would  be  an  over 
charge,"  " 

Says  the  Captain  of  the  tugboat  to  the  skipper  of  the 
barge. 


Says  the  skipper  of  the  coal  barge  to  the  Captain  of 
the  tug, 

"There's  a  padded  cell  awaitin'  fer  your  special  kind  of 
bug, 

I  ain't  got  a  thing  ag'in  you — *cept  the  color  of  yer 
hair, 

An'  yer  looks  an'  ways  an'  actions  an'  the  kind  of 
clothes  you  wear; 

I'm  just  kinda  SORRY  fer  you — fer  your  temper  an' 
yer  shape — 

As  a  human  ye're  a  failure,  but  you'd  make  a  hand 
some  ape. 

[80] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

REPARTEE  (continued) 

I  would  git  a  job  as  wild  man  if  I  had  yer  awful  mug," 
Says  the  skipper  of  the  coal-barge  to  the  Captain  of 
the  tug. 

Then  the  Captain  of  the  tugboat  climbed  upon  the  coal- 
barge  deck, 
An*  the  skipper  of  the  coal-barge  fell  upon  his  brawny 

neck, 
An*  they  wrastled  an'  they  pounded  an'  they  shouted 

an*  they  swore, 
An*  it  looked — the  way  they  acted — they  was  out  fer 

blood  an'  gore. 
Says  the  Captain  of  the  tugboat,  "Well,  it's  good  to 

meet  you  here." 
Says  the  skipper  of  the  coal-barge,  "Same  to  you,  Bill, 

have  a  beer?" 
An'  the  two  old  pals  an'  cronies — arm  in  arm  they  goes 

below, 
Fer  'twas  just  to  show  affection  that  they  cussed  each 

other  so! 


T8i] 


WESTERN    BALLADS 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


THE   HILLS 

T)ARTNER,  remember  the  hills? 

-i    The  gray,  barren,  bleak  old  hills, 

We  knew  so  well — 

Not  these  gentle,  placid  slopes  that  swell 

In  lazy  undulations,  lush  and  green. 

No;  the  real  hills,  the  jagged  crests, 

The  sharp  and  sheer-cut  pinnacles  of  earth 

That  stand  against  the  azure — gaunt,  serene, 

Careless  of  all  our  little  worsts  and  bests, 

Our  sorrow  and  our  mirth! 

Partner,  remember  the  hills? 

Those  snow-crowned,  granite  battlements  of  hills 

We  loved  of  old. 

They  stood  so  calm,  inscrutable  and  cold, 

Somehow  it  never  seemed  they  cared  at  all 

For  you  or  me,  our  fortune  or  our  fall, 

And  yet  we  felt  their  thrall ; 

And  ever  and  forever  to  the  end 

We  shall  not  cease,  my  friend, 

To  hear  their  call. 

Partner,  remember  the  hills? 
The  grim  and  massive  majesty  of  hills 
That  soared  so  far, 

Seeming,  at  night,  to  scrape  against  a  star. 
Do  you  remember  how  we  lay  at  night 
(When  the  great  herd  had  settled  down  to  sleep) 
And  watched  the  moonshine — white 
[85] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  HILLS  (continued) 

Against  the  peaks  all  garlanded  with  snow, 

While  soft  and  low 

The  night  wind  murmured  in  our  ears — and  so 

We  wrapped  our  blankets  closer,  looked  again 

At  those  great,  shadowy  mountaintops,  and  then 

Sank  gently  to  our  deep 

And  quiet  sleep? 

Partner,  remember  the  hills? 

The  real  hills,  the  true  hills. 

Ah,  I  have  tried 

To  brush  the  memory  of  them  aside ; 

To  learn  to  love 

These  fresh,  green  hills  the  poets  carol  of; 

But  the  old  gray  hills  of  barrenness  still  hold 

My  heart  so  much  in  thrall 

That  I  forget  the  beauty  all  about, 

The  grass  and  flowers  and  all; 

And  just  cry  out 

To  take  again  the  faint  and  wind-swept  trail, 

To  see  my  naked  mountains,  shale  and  snow, 

To  feel  again  the  hill-wind  and  to  know 

The  spell  that  shall  not  fail. 


[86] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


NOSTALGIA 

I'M  goin'  home  where  the  mountains  are, 
Where  a  man's  own  eyes  kin  see  as  far 
And  farther  too — in  that  atmosphere — 
Than  a  man  with  a  telescope  kin  here. 

I'm  goin'  home  to  the  minin*  town, 
Where  the  boys  is  sinkin'  the  deep  shafts  down ; 
Where  the  hills  is  steep  an'  the  scenery's  bare, 
An'  there  ain't  no  foliage  anywhere — 
I'm  goin'  home. 

I'm  goin'  home  to  the  raw  old  camp, 
Where  the  whistles  hoot  an'  the  engines  stamp ; 
Where  nobody  asks  you,  "Who  are  you?" 
But  only,  "Hey  there;  what  kin  you  do?" 
Where  the  slag  dumps  glow  an'  the  ore  cars  bang, 
An'  the  six-horse  teamsters  shout,  "G'lang!"     ' 
Where  the  chimneys  flare  with  a  hundred  hues; 
Where  you  play  the  game  with  a  stack  of  blues, 
Whoop  if  you're  winner  an'  grin  if  you  lose ; 
Where  the  pace  is  fast  an'  the  blood  runs  hot, 
An'  you  blow  in  all  of  the  cash  you've  got — 
I'm  goin'  home. 

I'm  goin'  home  to  my  own  again, 
To  the  breezy  girls  an'  the  six-foot  men, 
To  the  rocky  hills  an'  the  sagebrush  plains, 
Where  it  always  pours  an'  it  never  rains ; 
[87] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

NOSTALGIA  (continued) 

Six  thousand  feet  above  the  sea, 
Where  the  heart  beats  swift  an*  the  soul  is  free ; 
Where  you  live  like  a  live  one — an*  when  you  die 
They  lay  you  under  the  alkali 
An*  drink  to  your  soul  in  a  whisky  straight, 
An*  shake  fer  the  drinks  at  the  graveyard  gate. 
You  kin  have  my  job  an'  my  office  space ; 
I  want  to  get  out  to  the  good  old  place 
Where  the  peaks  are  white  as  the  ocean  foam — 
I'm  goin*  home. 


[88] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


THE   EXILE 

I  WANT  to  go,  want  to  go,  want  to  go  west  again, 
Back  where  the  men  are  the  biggest  and  best 

again, 
Back  where  my  life  will  have  savor  and  zest  again, 

Gee,  but  I'm  sick  for  it,  sick  for  it  all ; 
Sick  to  go  back  where  my  heart  is  unbound  again, 
Somehow  I'm  lost  and  I  want  to  be  found  again 
Where  I  belong,  on  my  natural  ground  again, 
Up  where  the  men  and  the  mountains  are  tall. 

I  want  to  go,  want  to  go,  want  to  go  west  again, 
Wing  myself  back  like  a  bird  to  the  nest  again 
Feel  the  free  air  in  my  throat  and  my  chest  again, 

Up  where  it's  roomy  and  open  and  grand; 
Up  where  the  sunshine  is  golden  and  glorious, 
Manners  as  bluff  and  as  breezy  as  Boreas, 
Nobody  distant — and  no  one  censorious, 

Comradeship  sure  of  the  deep  western  brand. 

I  want  to  go,  want  to  go,  want  to  go  west  again ! 
Hear  the  old  gang  with  its  quip  and  its  jest  again, 
Ride  a  good  horse  and  be  decently  dressed  again 

(Corduroys,  stetson  and  old  flannel  shirt!) 
Flowers  and  trees?  I  have  suffered  a  blight  of  them, 
Give  me  the  peaks  with  the  gray  and  the  white  of  them, 
(Granite  and  snow)  I  am  sick  for  the  sight  of  them, 

— Blessed  old  memories,  yet  how  they  hurt! 
[89] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  EXILE  (continued) 

I  want  to  go,  want  to  go,  want  to  go  west  again, 
Put  all  my  dreams  of  the  past  to  the  test  again, 
(Gorges  and  canyons  and  cliffs  and  the  rest  again 

Heaving  themselves  in  their  grandeur  to  view;) 
Let  me  but  feel  the  old  thrill  in  my  breast  again, 
Know  camaraderie  mutely  expressed  again, 
Gee,  but  I  want  to  go,  want  to  go  west  again, 

Back  to  the  Mountains,  old  Girl,  and  to  YOU ! 


[90] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 


THE  FANCY   SHOTS 

(Incident  taken  in  part  from  a  story  by  Emerson 
Hough) 

THEY  come  in  town  a-whoopin'  an*  they  raised 
a-plenty  hell, 
They  was  bold  and  wicked  bad  men  an*  they  ran  things 

for  a  spell. 
They  was  shootin'  round  promiscus  like  a  Wild  West 

Show  parade, 
They    had    everybody    duckin',    they    had    everyone 

afraid ; 
When  they  saw  the  city  marshal,  in  his  hat  they  shot  a 

hole, 
Then  they  had  him  nimbly  dancin'  while  they  done 

the  double  roll; 
They  could  keep  a  tin  can  rollin'  with  the  bullets  from 

a  gun, 
An*  the  stunts  they  didn't  show  us  simply  never  had 

been  done. 


But  at  last  they  both  departed,  havin*  nearly  wrecked 

the  town, 
An*  the  sheriff  came  in  after — on  his  face  a  worried 

frown, 
An'  he  says  some  cattle  rustlers  has  been  busy  round 

of  late, 
An'  he  gives  us  their  descriptions — it  was  Them,  as 

sure  as  Fate! 

[91] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  FANCY  SHOTS  (continued) 

So  we  told  him  of  their  shootin',  of  their  quickness  an* 

their  skill, 
An*  we  says  they  sure  would  git  him  if  they  really  shot 

to  kill, 

For  the  sheriff  ain't  no  wonder,  just  an  ordinary  shot, 
Though  the  people  he  went  after  he  most  generally 

got! 
When  we  offered  him  a  posse,  he  just  grinned  and 

shook  his  head. 
"You  kin  hitch  me  up  a  wagon  an*  I'll  go  alone,"  he 

said. 
"I  ain't  got  no  shootin'  irons  but  this  rifle  here  of 

mine, 
There's  a  couple  bullets  in  it,  just  as  good  as  eight  or 

nine — 
I  ain't  much  on  fancy  motions,  bustin'  crystal  balls  an' 

such, 
But  I  wants  them  cattle  rustlers,  an'  I  wants  'em  very 

much." 


Well,  we  hitches  up  the  wagon  an'  we  says  to  him, 

"Good-bye," 
An'  most  every  feller  present  had  some  moisture  in 

his  eye, 
Fer  we  kind  of  likes  that  sheriff,  an'  we  hates  to  see 

him  die! 
But  he  drives  away  a-hummin'  of  a  funny  kind  of 

tune, 
An'  we  all  goes  back  to  drinkin'  in  the  Yellow  Dog 

Saloon. 


[9*1 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  FANCY  SHOTS  (continued) 

Now  there  ain't  no  twists  an*  turnin's  to  this  here 

veracious  tale, 
In  half  a  day  or  sooner  we  see  something  on  the 

trail, 
An*  at  last  the  dust  cloud  parted,  an'  we  makes  it 

plainly  then — 
It's  the  sheriff  on  his  wagon,  drivin'  calmly  home 

again. 

He  is  whistlin'  soft  an*  tender  on  that  same  fool  melody, 
An*  he  wasn't  none  excited  far  as  anyone  could  see, 
But  underneath  the  canvas  on  that  little  wagon  floor 
Was  them  two  bad  cattle  rustlers  that  would  never 

rustle  more. 

I  don't  know  the  way  he  done  it,  but  the  moral's  plain 

an*  clear, 
You  may  shoot  tin  cans  an*  quarters  tossed  up  in  the 

atmosphere, 
You  may  make  the  natives  wonder  at  yer  marvelous 

control, 
You  may  break  the  shootin'  records,   do  the  nifty 

double  roll, 
But  the  really  fancy  shooter,  when  you  git  right  down 

to  pan, 
Is  the  guy  who  pulls  the  quickest  an'  who  always  gits 

his  man! 


[93l 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


AND  HALLOWELL  CHAWED 

SAYS  Bill  the  Bad'un,  as  he  blows  in: 
"You've  heard  'em  tell  of  Original  Sin? 
Well,   I'm  that  party — the  toughest  yet; 
The  sort  of  person  who'd  just  as  soon 
Shoot  up  the  gang  in  a  bum  saloon 
As  scratch  a  match  fer  a  cigarette." 
Then  he  shoots  the  glasses  offen  the  bar 
An'  the  gang  it  ducks — fer  it  looks  like  war; 
Yet  Hallowell  never  stops  his  jaws 
As  he  chaws  an'  chaws  an*  chaws  an'  chaws. 

Says  Bill  the  Bad'un:    "Say,  I'm  the  worst 

That  ever  carried  a  manVsize  thirst. 

There's  a  private  buryin'-ground  I've  got, 

A  quiet  an'  peaceful  an'  lonesome  spot; 

An'  though  it's  crowded  a  bit,  I  think 

It  could  hold  a  dozen  as  like  as  not 

If  I  planted  you  close  in  that  little  plot — 

Will  somebody  kindly  purchase  a  drink?"-— 

Hallowell  doesn't  stop  ner  pause 

But  chaws  an'  chaws  an'  chaws  an*  chaws. 

The  tremblin'  barkeeper  sets  'em  up, 
An'  Bill  the  Bad'un  he  waves  his  Krupp 
An'  orders  the  crowd  that's  left  to  prance 
In  a  pained  an'  ponderous  sort  of  dance. 
But  it  don't  quite  meet  with  Bill's  applause, 
Fer  Hallowell  still  just  sets  an'  chaws. 
[94] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

AND  HALLOWELL  CHAWED  (continued) 

Says  Bill  the  Bad'un :    "There's  one  old  gent 

Who  doesn't  appear  to  know  what's  meant 

By  the  terpsichorean  art  I  teach — 

I'll  briefly  explain  in  a  louder  speech." 

So  a  shot  rang  out  and  another,  too, 

An*  the  county  coroner  hove  in  view. 

Now  down  in  that  private  buryin'-ground 
Is  a  heap  of  earth  in  a  six-foot  mound ; 
An'  often  you'll  notice,  a-settin'  there, 
A  quiet  man  with  a  languid  air, 
Who  says,  with  barely  an  eyelash  flicker: 
"There's  some  is  quick  an*  others  is  quicker, 
But  those  that's  quick  is  frequent  dead 
An'  those  that's  quicker  is  quick  instead." 
An'  havin'  expounded  these  simple  laws, 
Hallowell  chaws  an'  chaws  an'  chaws. 


[95] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 


THE  PROSPECTOR 

MY  pick  is  stuck  in  my  belt  loop,  my  pipe  is  stuck 
in  my  face, 
I'm  off  to  the  snowy  mountains,  I'm  moving  from  place 

to  place, 
With  the  clear,  cool  air  about  me  and  the  chance  for  a 

"strike"  ahead 
And  all  of  my  cares  and  troubles  back  in  the  town  IVe 

fled. 

Smoking  my  strong  tobacco,  humming  my  happy  song, 
I'm  off  on  the  search  for  the  gold  I  have  hoped,  the 

gold  I  have  sought  so  long; 
But  whether  I  find  it,  or  fail  again,  whatever  my  fate 

deems  best, 
At  least  I'll  have  been  on  the  hike  once  more  and 

sated  my  wild  unrest. 

Sometimes  with  no  walls  around  me,  no  roof  but  the 

sky  above, 
I  lie  in  my  army  blankets  and — ponder  on  life  and 

love? 
Well,  no,  I  puff  on  my  briar,  I'm  held  by  the  night  in 

thrall, 
And  I  watch  the  thin  smoke  melt  away  and  think  of 

nothing  at  all. 
Peace  to  the  wide  world's  worries,  they  are  millions  of 

miles  afar. 
They  look  as  tiny  and  dim  to  me  as  the  uttermost  tiny 

star — 

[96] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 

THE  PROSPECTOR  (continued) 

And  the  nightwind  brushes  my  temples,  and  drowsy 
visions  creep 

Into  my  idle,  care-free  brain  and  then  comes  a  dream 
less  sleep. 

My  pick  is  stuck  in  my  belt  loop,  my  pipe  is  stuck  in 

my  face, 

I'm  oft7  on  another  prospect  hoping  that  I  may  trace 
Some  vein  of  the  yellow  metal,  or  even  the  red  or 

white, 
And  never  was  heart  more  hopeful  and  never  were 

hopes  more  bright. 
What  if  I  never  strike  it?     You  ask  with  a  pitying 

smile. 
Why,  friend,  the  very  searching  is  many  times  worth 

the  while, 
For  it  lifts  my  troubles  from  me,  and  I  know  from  the 

very  start 
That  one  sort  of  gold  I  am  sure  to  gain,  the  gold  of  a 

carefree  heart. 


T97l 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


PARDNERS 
(The  Cowpuncher  to  His  Pony) 

YOU  bad-eyed,  tough-mouthed  son-of-a-gun, 
Ye're  a  hard  little  beast  to  break, 
But  ye're  good  f er  the  fiercest  kind  of  run 

An'  ye're  quick  as  a  rattlesnake. 
You  jolted  me  good  when  first  we  met, 

In  the  dust  of  the  bare  corral, 
An*  neither  one  of  us  will  ferget 
The  fight  that  we  fit,  old  pal. 

But  now — well,  say,  old  boss,  if  John 

D.  Rockefeller  shud  come 
With  all  of  the  riches  his  paws  are  on 

An*  want  to  buy  you,  you  bum, 
I'd  laugh  in  his  face  an'  pat  yer  neck, 

An'  say  to  him  loud  an'  strong, 
"I  wouldn't  sell  you  this  durned  old  wreck 

Fer  all  of  yer  cash — so  long!" 

Fer  we  have  slept  on  the  barren  plains, 

An'  cuddled  against  the  cold, 
We've  been  through  tempests  of  drivin*  rains 

When  the  heaviest  thunder  rolled ; 
We've  raced  with  fire  on  the  "lone  prairee," 

An'  run  from  the  mad  stampede ; 
An*  there  ain't  no  money  can  buy  from  me 

A  pard  of  yer  style  an'  breed. 
[98] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

PARDNERS  (continued) 

So  I  reckon  we'll  stick  together,  pard, 

Till  one  of  us  cashes  in. 
Ye're  wiry  an'  tough  an*  mighty  hard, 

An'  homlier,  too,  than  sin ; 
But  yer  head's  all  there  an'  yer  heart's  all  right, 

An'  you've  been  a  good  pardner,  too. 
An'  if  you've  a  soul  it's  clean  and  white — 

You  ugly  old  scoundrel,  you! 


[99] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


THE  THRALL  OF  THE  GOLDEN  GATE 

IT'S  mighty  far  to  Frisco  town, 
Where  streets  run  steeply  up  and  down, 
It's  over  all  a  continent,  and  I  am  busted,  too. 
Yet  I  am  sick  for  Kearney  Street, 
Where  all  the  old  tramps  royal  meet, 
And  I  am  going  back  again  to  join  that  royal  crew! 

Yes,  it  is  far  to  Frisco  town,  to  Frisco  town,  to  Frisco 

town, 
But  I  will  get  there,  hook  or  crook,  there  always  is  a 

way! 
I'll  hit  the  trail  for  Frisco  town,  for  fair  old,  rare  old 

Frisco  town, 

That  lies  so  happy  on  her  hills  and  looks  upon  the 
bay! 

Oh,  hearts  were  light  in  Frisco  town, 
That  loves  to  laugh  and  hates  to  frown, 
(I  laughed  my  share  when  I  was  there  so  many  years 

ago) 

But  though  she's  burnt  and  built  again 
And  strange  to  such  as  loved  her  then, 
I'm  going  back  to  Frisco  town,  the  town  I  used  to 
know ! 

Yes,  it  is  far  to  Frisco  town,  to  Frisco  town,  to  Frisco 

town, 

But  I  would  rather  beg  or  starve  beside  the  Golden 
Gate, 

[100] 


SONGS    OF   THE    W  O  R  K  A  D  A  Y   WO  F. 


THE  THRALL  OF  THE  GOLDEN  GATE  (continued) 

And  be  again  in  Frisco  town,  in  dear  old,  queer  old 

Frisco  town, 

Than  have  a  million  dollars  here  and  live  in  gaudy 
state ! 


The  girls  are  fair  in  Frisco  town 

And  each  one  wears  her  gayest  gown 
(And  O  the  glory  of  their  eyes  from  inky  black  to 
gray!) 

I  wonder  if  there's  still  displayed 

The  bright  and  brilliant  dress  parade 
That  used  to  float  along  the  line  just  after  matinee! 

It's  far,  it's  far  to  Frisco  town,  to  Frisco  town,  to 

Frisco  town, 
But  though  I  have  to  beat  my  way  I'm  game  to  make 

the  trip 
To  smiling,  wiling  Frisco  town,  to  Frisco  town,  to 

Frisco  town, 

Where  life  was  like  a  dry  champagne  that  tingles  on 
the  lip! 

Oh,  time  goes  swift  in  Frisco  town, 
Where  fortune  bobs  you  up  and  down, 
Where  no  one  counts  to-morrow  till  to-morrow  is  to 
day! 

The  city  glorious  and  glad, 
The  city — everything  but  sad! 

The  city  full  of  lights  and  love,  and  never  less  than 
gay! 

[101] 


SOJNGS    C?   THEWORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  THRALL  OF  THE  GOLDEN  GATE  (continued) 
It's  mighty  far  to  Frisco  town,  to  Frisco  town,  to 

Frisco  town, 
(But  O  the  lights  that  used  to  shine  from  wine  shop 

and  cafe!) 
I'll  hit  the  trail  to  Frisco  town,  to  light  old,  bright  old 

Frisco  town, 

That  lies  so  happy  on  her  hills  and  looks  upon  the 
bay! 


[102] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 


THE  COWARD 

SAYS  Alkali  Ike,  "Though  it  may  be  true 
That  bad  men's  eyes  is  a  quiet  blue, 
An*  their  hands  is  small  an'  their  voices  low, 
An'  I  got  all  of  them  marks  to  show, 
Yet  I  hereby  claim,  depose  an*  state, 
Reckon,  declare  an'  kalkilate, 
That  I  am  the  peacefulest  person  here — 
I  says  it  loud  an'  I  says  it  clear, 
I'm  the  quietest,  kindest,  meekest  guy 
That  ever  was  seen  by  the  human  eye." 

Says  Alkali  Ike,  as  he  drunk  a  drink, 
"Honestly,  boys,  I'm  the  ca'mest  gink, 
With  the  softest  heart  an'  the  kindest  ways 
Of  any  feller  you'll  meet  these  days. 
I  preaches  peace  an*  I  lives  it — right, 
I  ain't  no  hand  fer  a  scrap  er  fight, 
I'm  so  slow  to  anger  there's  folks  who  claim 
That  I  got  no  honor  er  sense  of  shame, 
They  sees  me  lettin'  things  go  so  far 

They  reckon  I'm  cowardly " 

"And  you  are," 

Says  the  stranger,  leanin'  acrost  the  bar, 
An'  everyone  ducks,  fer  it  looks  like  war. 

"I  am !"  says  Ike,  as  he  draws  his  gat, 
"Well,  mebbe  I  am,  but  I  won't  take  that!" 
"G'wan,"  says  the  stranger;  "chuck  it,  scat! 
[103] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  COWARD  (continued) 

I  ain't  no  bad  man,  I  got  no  gun, 
Go  on  an*  shoot — when  the  job  is  done 
They'll  tell  how  yer  brave  young  heart  was  steeled 
To  puncture  a  feller — that  wasn't  heeled." 

Says  Alkali  Ike,  "Why,  durn  my  eyes, 
Ye're  dead  right,  friend;  I  apologize." 
Then  he  peeled  his  coat  an'  his  cartridge  belt, 
An'  he  took  off  his  guns  an'  his  Stetson  felt, 
An'  he  says,  "Though  a  person  of  peace  I  am, 
I'll  fight  you,  stranger,  yer  own  way," — Bam! 
An'  he  hit  that  guy  on  his  ugly  chin, 
An'  the  stranger  fell  in  a  heap — all  in. 

Says  Alkali  Ike,  "You  have  often  heard 
Of  the  Dove  of  Peace — well,  I'm  that  bird. 
Is  there  any  doubt  of  the  fact?    What?    No? 
All  right,  let's  licker,  here's  to  you,  bo!" 


[104] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 


PLAYING  THE   GAME 

,  he  went  an'  stole  our  steers, 
So,  of  course,  he  had  to  die ; 
I  ain't  sheddin'  any  tears, 

But,  when  I  cash  in — say,  I 

Want  to  take  it  like  that  guy — 
Laughin',  jokin'  with  the  rest, 

Not  a  whimper,  not  a  cry, 
Standin'  up  to  meet  the  test 

Till  we  swung  him  clear  an*  high, 
With  his  face  turned  toward  the  west ! 

Here's  the  way  it  looks  to  me; 

Cattle  thief's  no  thing  to  be, 

But,  if  you  take  up  that  trade, 

Be  the  best  one  ever  made; 

If  you've  got  a  thing  to  do 

Do  it  strong  an'  SEE  IT  THROUGH ! 

That  was  him !    He  played  the  game, 

Took  his  chances,  bet  his  hand, 
When  at  last  the  showdown  came 

An'  he  lost,  he  kept  his  sand ; 
Didn't  weep  an*  didn't  pray, 

Didn't  waver  er  repent, 
Simply  tossed  his  cards  away, 

Knowin'  well  just  what  it  meant. 
Never  claimed  the  deck  was  stacked, 

Never  called  the  game  a  snide, 
[105] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

PLAYING  THE  GAME  (continued) 

Acted  like  a  man  should  act, 
Took  his  medicine — an*  died! 

So  I  say  it  here  again, 
What  I  think  is  true  of  men ; 
They  should  try  to  do  what's  right, 
Fair  an*  square  an*  clean  an'  white, 
But,  whatever  is  their  line, 
Bad  er  good  er  foul  er  fine, 
Let  'em  go  the  Limit,  play 
Like  a  plunger,  that's  the  way! 


tio6J 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


THE  SUNSET  TRAIL 

OUT  along  the  sunset  trail 
Life  was  never  dull  or  stale; 
You  could  allus  take  a  chance, 
Where  the  mountains  reached  so  far 
Knockin'  up  ag'in  a  star! 
Seems  as  if  I  had  to  go 
When  the  past  is  callin'  so, 
Got  to  answer  to  the  hail 
From  the  pals  I  used  to  know 
Out  along  the  sunset  trail! 

Out  along  the  sunset  trail 
Life  was  something  new  an*  glad, 
There  weren't  no  distinctions  pale — 
Good  was  good  an'  bad  was  bad — 
(Bad  was  extry  double  bad!) 
There  was  women  there  an*  men 
Like  we'll  never  see  again, 
Swaggerin'  an'  quick  an'  proud, 
Loyal,  laughin',  rough  an'  loud, 
Buckin'  any  game  they  played 
Like  they  thought  they  couldn't  fail. 
They  weren't  pikers,  er  afraid, 
Out  along  the  sunset  trail! 

Out  along  the  sunset  trail 
Life  was  swift  an'  blood  was  red. 
[107] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  SUNSET  TRAIL  (continued) 

Now  them  flamin'  days  is  dead, 
Things  is  quiet-like  an*  pale. 
Yet  I  reckon  if  it  came 
To  a  p'int  where  there  was  need, 
They  could  play  the  same  old  game, 
Play  it  with  the  same  old  speed, 
They  could  fight  an*  work  an'  love, 
Like  the  folk  I'm  singin'  of ; 
Women  still  are  women — brave, 
Kind  an*  tender,  to  the  grave, 
Men  are  big  an*  true  an* — Male ! 
Out  along  the  sunset  trail ! 


[108] 


SONGS  OF  THE  COPPER  COUNTRY 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


THE  SMOKE-EATER 

HE  stands  in  the  middle  of  Hell  an*  grins, 
Where  a  salamander  would  choke, 
His  hide's  constructed  of  elephant  skins, 

His  diet  is  sulphur  smoke. 
The  throat  of  the  brute  is  black  as  black, 

An*  his  lungs  is  a  similar  shade, 
An'  he  hasn't  a  shirt  to  his  sweatin'  back, 
When  he's  swelterin'  at  his  trade. 

Eatin'  the  smoke, 
Eatin'  the  smoke, 

Eatin'  the  smoke  with  vim. 
Sometimes  I  kick 
At  my  own  hard  trick — 

But  I  wouldn't  trade  jobs  with  him. 

Where  the  long  blast  furnaces  snort  an*  roar, 

Or  the  calcine  tables  turn, 
Or  out  on  the  big  converter  floor 

He  has  his  livin'  to  earn. 
An*  all  he  does  is  to  play  with  fire 

The  whole  of  the  workin'  day, 
An*  breathe  hot  smoke  to  his  heart's  desire 

As  long  as  he  draws  his  pay. 

Eatin'  the  smoke, 
Eatin'  the  smoke, 
Watchin*  the  hot  matte  glare, 
[ml 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 

THE  SMOKE-EATER  (continued) 

You  wouldn't  pine 
For  a  job  like  mine — 

But  it's  better  than  that  one  there. 

He  tramps  around  in  arsenic  dust, 

In  a  sort  of  inferno  scene ; 
With  slag-pots  sputterin'  fit  to  bust 

An'  molten  copper  that's  green. 
Copper  that's  green  an'  blue  an'  red 

As  it  boils  when  the  blast  whoops  through, 
An'  big  cranes  swingin'  above  his  head 

With  caldrons  of  molten  stew. 

Eatin'  the  smoke, 
Eatin'  the  smoke, 

That's  what  a  man  is  f er. 
It's  the  same  old  song, 
Of  a  whole  life  long — 

"Fer  the  sake  of  the  kids  an'  Her!" 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 


THE  MINER 

THE  old  prospector  he  finds  the  claim, 
The  young  surveyor  he  marks  the  same, 
And  the  carpenter  builds  the  gallows  frame, 

And  the  teamster  he  hauls  the  coal ; 

The  foreman  tells  'em  the  way  to  do, 

The  engineer  hoists  a  cage  or  two, 

But  listen  to  this,  I'm  a-tellin*  you — 

It's  the  Miner  who  digs  the  hole! 

Colonel — another  bowl! 
I'm  dry  as  a  roasted  soul, 

I've  had  to  choke 

On  powder  smoke, 

My  teeth  are  full  of  the  rock  I've  broke, 
For  I  am  one  poor  son-of-a-gun — 

A  Miner  who  digs  the  hole ! 

He  must  work  in  gas  and  see  in  the  dark, 
The  music  he  hears  is  the  air-drill's  bark, 
It  isn't  no  "picnic  in  the  park," 

It  isn't  no  cinch  he's  stole; 
He's  carpenter,  plumber,  machinist — yes, 
A  sort  of  surveyor,  too,  I  guess — 
A  little  of  everything — more  or  less, 

The  Miner  who  digs  the  hole ! 

Colonel — another  bowl! 
I'm  fat  with  my  pay-day  roll, 
[113] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  MINER  (continued) 

With  rent  and  such 

It  ain't  so  much, 
But    I'm    glad    I'm    walkin'    without    a 

crutch ! 
For  I  am  one  poor  son-of-a-gun, 

A  Miner  who  digs  the  hole ! 

There's  the  fire  to  fight  and  the  miner's  con, 

Rickety  ladders  to  step  upon, 

A  missed  hole  found — and  a  miner  gone, 

And  you'll  hear  the  church  bells  toll ; 
But  hell ! — we've  got  to  "make  her  pay !" 
And  we  get  our  three  and  a  half  a  day, 
So  have  another  on  me,  I  say ! 

You  Miners  who  dig  the  hole! 

Colonel — another  bowl! 

Heaven's  our  final  goal ! 
The  mines  are  hot 
But  they're  all  we've  got, 

And  they'll  last  awhile,  as  like  as  not, 

And  we  are  the  ones — poor  sons-of-guns, 
The  Miners  who  dig  the  hole! 


C«4l 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 


THE   TEAMSTER 

WITH  a  five-ton  copper  load  an'  a  rocky,  rutty 
road, 

An'  a  evil-minded  bunch  of  mules  to  go  it; 
With  a  leather  lash  to  sting  as  the  sharpest  turns  I 

swing, 

I  haven't  any  picnic,  an'  I  know  it. 
'Tis  a  long  an'  sudden  drop — if  I  chance  to  go  kerflop 

There  wouldn't  be  much  left  of  me  to  grumble ; 
So  I  finds  it  very  wise  just  to  utilize  my  eyes, 
For  a  half  a  mile  is  something  of  a  tumble. 

I  haven't  any  kick  at  my  chosen  daily  trick, 

Which  you  can't  exactly  value  till  you've  tried  it, 
But  I'd  like  to  have  it  said  that  it  takes  a  steady  head 

With  a  pretty  fair  to  middlin'  brain  inside  it. 
When  the  road  is  hard  an'  steep  an'  the  yawnin'  gulch 
is  deep 

An'  the  space  you've  got  to  travel  in  is  narrow, 
An'  the  mules  is  stubborn  brutes,  you  can  bet  your 
shirt  an'  boots 

That  you've  got  to  be  some  stronger  than  a  sparrow. 

So  I  drives  'em  day  by  day  down  the  rough  an'  crooked 
way, 

An'  although  it  seems  I  does  it  helter-skelter, 
You  can  notice,  if  you  will,  that  I  doesn't  take  a  spill, 

An'  I  gets  my  load  of  copper  to  the  smelter. 

fug] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  TEAMSTER  (continued) 

If  my  language  isn't  nice — well,  you  try  it  once  or 

twice 

When  the  leaders  an'  the  others  gets  to  fussin', 
An*  you'll  find,  the  same  as  me,  when  you  try  to  make 

em  "Gee !" 
That  a  mule  was  never  driven  without  cussin'. 


[116] 


SONGS    OF    THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


DRIFTWOOD 

CALL  me  a  miner  er  call  me  a  tramp, 
I've  been  a  little  of  each, 
I've  floated  into  many  a  camp 
An*  drifted  upon  the  beach; 
I've  drifted  from  Salt  Lake  to  Jerome, 
The  Comstock  has  knowed  me,  too. 
Wherever  I  am  I  calls  my  home 
An*  my  trade's  whatever  I  do! 

Driftin'  along,  driftin'  along, 

Floatin'  wherever  the  tide  is  strong, 
Coin*  no  place  an'  everywhere, 
No  one  to  know  an'  no  one  to  care, 

Gettin'  in  right  er  gettin'  in  wrong — 

Driftin',  driftin'  along. 

I'm  a  Native  Son  er  a  Peerless  Plug, 

I'm  a  Notcher,  I  guess,  as  well, 
An'  down  in  Nevader  I  have  dug 

In  heat,  hot  water  an'  hell ; 
High-graded  a  bit  down  Goldfield  way, 

Gumbooted  a  bit  in  Nome. 
My  habitat  is  where  I  stay, 

And  wherever  I  am  is  home. 

Driftin'  along,  driftin'  along, 
What  do  I  care  if  you  think  it  wrong? 
I  gets  my  clothes  an'  a  drink  or  two, 
An'  the  rest  of  my  life  is  nuthin'  to  you. 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

DRIFTWOOD  (continued) 

Floatin'  wherever  the  tide  is  strong — 
Driftin',  driftin'  along. 

Maybe  I  works  a  month  er  so, 

Maybe  I  works  a  shift, 
An'  when  I'm  ready  an'  primed  to  go 

I  quits  my  workin'  to  drift. 
Sometimes  I  drifts  to  the  county  jail, 

An'  ceases,  sudden,  to  roam, 
Fer  I  has  no  cash  an'  I  gets  no  bail — 

So — wherever  I  am  is  home! 

Driftin'  along,  driftin'  along, 

That's  the  melody  of  my  song ; 
When  I  dies  I  reckon  I'll  drift 
To  a  hot-box  hole  an'  an  endless  shift. 

But  still  I'll  go  where  the  tide  is  strong — 

Driftin',  driftin'  along. 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 


THE  HARD   ROCK  MAN 

WELL,"  I  says,  "I'm  done  with  minin* 
An*  I'll  git  a  job  on  top, 
Where  the  sun  is  always  shinin', 

An'  there  ain't  no  rock  to  drop. 
Nix  on  that  old  hard-rock  toilin', 

I  will  quit  an*  git  a  wife, 
An'  we'll  keep  the  kettle  boilin', 
An'  I'll  settle  down  fer  life." 

Says  a  friend  of  mine  to  me, 
"Honest,  bo,  you  oughta  see 
This  here  tunnel  we  are  drivin' — it's  a  stinger, 

hully  gee ! 

Yas,  I  know  you've  chucked  the  trade, 
But  you  needn't  be  afraid 
Fer  to  come  an'  look  us  over  with  the  progress 
we  have  made." 

I  was  fool  enough  to  listen 

An*  they  led  me  to  the  spot, 
Where  the  air-exhaust  was  hissin* 

In  the  headin'  wet  an'  hot, 
An*  the  drills  was  barkin',  barkin', 

An'  the  mud  would  spatter  high, 
An'  I  found  that  I  was  harkin* 

With  a  tear-drop  in  me  eye. 

An*  I  wanted  to  be  back 
Where  the  mule-car  rolls  the  track, 
[119] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  HARD  ROCK  MAN  (continued) 

Where  you're  fightin'  rock  an'  water  an*  the 

roof  is  like  to  crack; 
They  kin  sing  of  "Mandelay," 
An'  the  "Wanderlust'*— but  say, 
I  kin  feel  the  hard  rock  fever  just  a-wastin*  me 
away. 

'Now,  I  ain't  a  blame  bit  happy 

In  my  quiet  little  job, 
I  want  drills  a-barkin*  snappy 

To  the  air-compressor's  throb; 
An*  I  want  to  handle  powder 

An*  from  job  to  job  to  roam, 
Fer  the  hard  rock's  callin'  louder 

Than  the  longin*  fer  a  home. 

Here's  a  tunnel  started  new, 
Out  near  Frisco  there  are  two. 
Oh,  a  hard  rock  man  can  allus  find  a  little 

work  to  do; 

An*  I  reckon  I'm  the  lad 
That  has  got  the  fever  bad, 
An*  it  oughta  make  me  sorry — but  it  only 
makes  me  glad! 


[120] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 


THE  PUMPMAN 
(As  the  Miner  Sees  Him) 

NOTHIN'  to  do  but  to  set  around, 
Loafin'  a  shift  away, 
The  easiest  graft  that's  underground 

An*  drawin'  the  biggest  pay. 
No  sweatin'  fer  him  in  a  stuffy  stope, 

No  packin'  of  drills  an'  such, 
No  liftin'  of  caps  on  a  rotten  rope — 

He  doesn't  amount  to  much! 
There  ain't  no  loose  roof  waitin'  fer  him, 

To  fall  on  his  bloomin'  head ; 
The  gas  ain't  makin'  his  candle  dim, 

Ner  makin'  his  eyes  all  red. 
The  pumps  they  chug  an'  chug  an'  thump, 

An'  he  tinkers  'em  up  a  bit, 
An'  he  calls  the  miner  a  fat-head  chump — 

An*  I  reckon  the  miner  is  it. 

(As  He  Sees  Himself) 

If  these  brass  beauties  uv  mine  shud  bust 

I'm  thinkin'  the  gang  wud  see 
How  much  they've  had  to  put  their  trust 

In  steam,  an'  the  pumps,  an'  me! 
They  sees  me  settin'  around  so  still, 

An'  the  big  pumps  hammerin'  gay, 
But  it  wudn't  take  long  fer  the  mine  to  fill 

If  the  pumpman  went  away! 
[zti] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  PUMPMAN  (continued) 

It  ain't  no  cinch,  but  if  it  was, 

I  reckon  I've  earned  it  fair, 
An*  I  ain't  shovelin'  now  because 

I'm  thinkin'  I  done  my  share. 
An'  now  I'm  close  to  the  watery  sump, 

As  I  have  a  right  to  be, 
Tendin'  close  to  the  big  brass  pump, 

The  boss  of  the  pump — that's  me  I 


[122] 


SONGS  OF  THE  LONG  TRAIL 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


THE  PROPER  SETTING 

T  T  7E  sat  one  night  in  a  dingy  bar,  that  was  close  to 
W       the  harbor  side, 
Where  we  heard  the  creak  of  the  hawsers  thick  as  the 

ships  were  swung  by  the  tide, 
And  the  smell  of  the  docks  was  all  about — and  the  feel 

of  the  salty  air, 
We  sat  in  a  bar  by  the  harbor  edge — the  gateway  to 

Everywhere. 
There  was  Hogan  and  Schmitz  and  Thorpe  and  Stone, 

Adventurers  all  were  they, 
Who  had  played  the  game  as  it  should  be  played — and 

jumped  at  the  chance  to  play. 

They  had  followed  my  Lady  Adventure's  trail  wher 
ever  she  chose  to  go, 
From  the  jungle  damp  and  the  desert  glare  to  the  chill 

of  the  northern  snow, 
They  had  battled  and  bragged  and  drunk  and  loved  as 

true  tramps  royal  can, 
And  they  sat  in  the  bar  and  swapped  their  yarns — 

the  yarns  of  the  rovers'  clan; 
And  banged  their  fists  on  the  table  top,  and  talked  to 

me,  man  to  man. 
So  I  said  to  myself,  "Here  is  royal  sport — to  listen  to 

men  like  these, 
Who  have  faced  their  fate  in  a  hundred  lands  and 

tempted  the  Seven  Seas ; 
I  will  feast  them  full  in  my  quiet  club  with  a  friend 

or  two  as  well, 

[125] 


SONGS   OF  THE   WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  PROPER  SETTING  (continued) 

And  we  will  lounge  at  the  groaning  board  and  hark  to 

the  tales  they  tell. 
Yes,  over  the  drinks  -and  the  cigarettes,  while  the 

smoke  is  hanging  blue, 
We'll  hear  the  chant  of  the  wandertrail,  of  the  men 

who  dare  and  do!" 

I  gathered  my  band  of  roving  men  and  sat  them  down 

at  the  feast. 
They  had  come  in  the  stiffest  garb  they  owned  with 

trousers  neatly  creased, 
They  were  nervous  and  rattled  and  ill  at  ease,  and 

scarcely  a  word  they  spoke, 

They  wrapped  themselves  in  silence  deep  and  a  regu 
lar  pall  of  smoke. 
We  knew  they  were  men  of  dauntless  hearts  who  had 

wandered  and  ventured  far, 
But  they  shut  up  tight  in  the  sumptuous  club  and  they 

longed  for  the  dingy  bar, 
They  had  no  fear  of  the  tiger  shark,  no  fright  at  a 

bullet's  screech, 
But  they  were  the  true  Adventurers  who  could  not 

make  a  speech. 

So  if  you  long  for  the  Rovers'  tales,  drop  down  where 

the  Rovers  meet 
In  a  dingy  bar  near  a  rotting  pier  on  a  shabby  harbor 

street. 
They'll  tell  you  yarns  that  will  thrill  you  through  with 

the  glow  of  an  old  delight, 
But  they  won't  perform  in  evening  dress  at  a  table 

that's  snowy  white, 

[126] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  PROPER  SETTING  (continued) 

For  the  saga  of  true  Adventure — and  this  is  the  truth 

you  hear, 
Is  sung  the  best  in  a  dingy  bar  with  a  pipe  and  a  glass 

of  beer. 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


THE   SONG   OF   THE    RAIL 

LIFE  here  in  town  is  too  bloomin'  monotonous, 
Stickin*  around  at  a  regular  job, 
All  the  time  somebody  bos  sin*  or  spottin'  us, 

Aw,  we  don't  fit  in  a  laborin*  mob ; 
Things  here  is  much  too  precise  and  pernickety, 

Bo,  I  would  just  as  soon  be  in  a  jail ; 
Us  for  the  road  an*  the  wheels  that  go  "clickety, 
Clickety  click"  on  the  glimmerin'  rail ! 

Us  for  the  road  an*  the  old  hobo  way  again, 

Loafin*  along  in  the  wind  an*  the  sun, 
Sleepin*  at  night  in  the  soft  of  the  hay  again, 

Nary  a  worry  of  work  to  be  done ; 
Say,  ain't  you  ready  to  beat  it,  by  crickety, 

Jump  on  a  freight  an*  be  off  on  the  trail, 
Hearin'  the  music  of  wheels  goin'  "clickety, 

Clickety  click"  on  the  glimmerin'  rail? 

Judges'll  call  us  a  shame  to  society, 

Brakeman'll  bounce  us  off  onto  the  ground, 

Trampin's  no  cinch — but  it's  full  of  variety, 
Here,  we're  just  ploddin'  around  an'  around! 

Honest,  I'm  gettin'  all  feeble  an'  rickety. 
Say,  bo,  we'll  wither  up  sure  if  e  stick; 

Let's  hop  a  rattler  with  wheels  that  go  "clickety, 
Clickety,  clickety,  clickety  click!" 


fl28] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 


THE   WANDER   TRAIL 

UP  across  the  mountains,  downward  through  the 
vale, 

Out  upon  the  foaming  seas  runs  the  wander  trail; 
Pack  your  bundle,  comrade,  and  take  your  staff  in 

hand ; 
We're  off  to  seek  contentment,  which  dwells  in  No 

Man's  Land. 
The   skies  are  blue  above  us,  the  roaming  wind  is 

sweet, 
The  roads  are  warm  and  springy  beneath  our  faring 

feet; 
Oh,  leave  the  home-kept  people  to  work  and  play  and 

breed — 
We  must  be  off,  fulfilling  the  rovers'  easy  creed ! 


For  lands  we've  never  traveled,  for  seas  we've  never 

crossed, 

Our  hearts  are  all  a-hunger,  we  never  count  the  cost ; 
The  sun  in  all  his  glory  of  rising  at  the  dawn 
But  calls  to  us  to  follow,  where  he  is  leading  on, 
And  when,  in  sheen  and  splendor,  he  sinks  beneath  the 

sea, 
He  seems  to  send  a  message,  "Come,  comrades,  follow 

me!" 
The  end  of  all  our  journey,  who  knows  what  it  may 

bring? 
But  friend,  the  wander  fever  has  wakened  with  the 


spring! 


[129] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


CHANT  ROYAL  OF  THE  TRAMP  ROYAL 

QTRANGER,  I  thank  you,  now  I've  cleaned  my 
^     plate, 

It's  fine  of  you  to  feed  a  wanderin'  guy 
That  happens  to  be  knockin'  at  yer  gate 

Weary  an'  faint,  without  a  cent  to  buy. 
That  grub  has  braced  me  up.    I'm  gettin'  gray, 
An'  I  can't  fast  like  when  I  was  a  gay 
An'  joyous  youngster  crammed  with  energy 

Who  swaggered  down  the  road  in  careless  glee 
In  days  that's  gone  an'  passed  beyond  recall 

When  I  set  out  an'  cried  back  recklessly, 
"The  world  is  wide  an'  I  ain't  seen  it  all!" 

I  worked  at  many  jobs,  an*  some  was  straight 
An'  some  was  crooked  as  a  crooked  lie, 

An'  yet  no  place  could  hold  me,  soon  or  late 
I'd  shake  its  dust;  fer  somethin'  in  the  sky 
Er  in  the  winds  kept  callin'  to  me.    Say, 
When  once  you  hear  those  voices  thataway 

There  ain't  no  promise  an'  there  ain't  no  fee 

Kin  hold  you  quiet,  you  are  out  of  key 
With  home-kept  folk,  your  job  begins  to  pall, 

An'  so  I'd  quit,  with  this  my  only  plea, 
"The  world  is  wide  an'  I  ain't  seen  it  all!" 

At  first  my  road  ran  only  state  to  state, 

City  to  city  when  the  pay  was  high; 
I'd  beat  my  way  by  passenger  er  freight, 

There  wasn't  much  that  missed  my  eager  eye. 
[130] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 

CHANT  ROYAL  OF  THE  TRAMP  ROYAL  (continued) 

But  when  I  see  a  vessel  where  she  lay 

Along  the  dock  in  San  Francisco  bay 
I  shipped  aboard  her,  longin'  fer  to  flee 
To  strange  far  lands  of  myth  an*  mystery, 

An*  though  the  life  would  cause  yer  flesh  to  crawl 
I  learned  a  lot — but  still  my  cry  must  be, 

"The  world  is  wide  an*  I  ain't  seen  it  all !" 

To  keep  on  goin*  was  my  restless  fate ; 
I  couldn't  quit  an*  didn't  care  to  try, 

Fer  there  was  things  to  view  both  small  an*  great, 
Lands  where  you  freeze  an'  countries  where  you  fry, 
Deserts  like  brass  an'  islands  drenched  in  spray, 
Queer  hidden  places  where  the  pilgrims  stray, 

An'  men  an*  women,  Malay  an'  Chinee, 

Christian  an'  heathen,  high  an'  low  degree, 
Fightin'  an'  lovin'  on  this  "earthly  ball"; 

What  wonder  I  obeyed  my  youth's  decree, 
"The  world  is  wide  an'  I  ain't  seen  it  all!" 


Yes,  there  was  women  wanted  me  to  wait, 

But  I — I  heard  the  voice  that  drowned  their  cry, 

It's  not  fer  me  to  settle  down  an'  mate, 
The  wander  fever's  got  me  till  I  die. 
Soft  hands  might  clutch  me  but  I  couldn't  stay, 
There  was  the  road  to  go,  the  game  to  play; 

An'  though  the  children  clamber  on  my  knee 

To  hear  my  tales,  there's  none  belongs  to  me, 
None  that  will  lift  me  kindly  when  I  fall, 

All  that  I  have  is  life — an'  liberty, 

The  world  is  wide  an'  I  ain't  seen  it  all ! 
[131] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


ENVOY 

Stranger,  my  thanks  an*  best  regards  to  ye 
Per  kindness  and  f er  welcome  warm  an*  free, 

But— there's  the  road,  I  can't  shake  off  its  thrall, 
An*  there's  so  far  to  go — so  much  to  see ; 

The  world  is  wide  an*  I  ain't  seen  it  all! 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


THE   PIONEERS 

THEY'RE  the  "utterly  foolish  dreamers, 
Who  dream  of  a  better  day ; 
They're  not  the  plotters  and  schemers 

Who  work  for  glory  and  pay, 
But  with  confidence  undiminished 

They  dream  of  a  world  made  new, 
And  after  their  days  are  finished 
The  wonderful  dream  comes  true! 

They're  the  fighters  who  fight  undaunted 

For  the  utterly  hopeless  cause, 
Ridiculed,  jeered  and  taunted, 

With  never  a  lull  or  pause ; 
But  after  they've  fought  and  perished, 

And  after  their  work  is  done, 
The  cause  they  have  loved  and  cherished 

Is  lifted  to  fame — and  won! 

They  know  the  hope  and  the  yearning, 

The  sting  of  the  blind  world's  scorn, 
But  never  the  sunshine  burning, 

The  skies  of  their  visioned  morn ; 
They're  the  warriors  fine  and  splendid, 

The  fond  and  the  faithful  few, 
Whose  battles  and  work  are  ended, 

Or  ever  the  dreams  come  true! 


[i33l 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


AUTUMN   MAGIC 

FROST  on  the  trees — on  the  grass, 
A  lilt  to  the  steps  that  pass; 
Tang  in  the  air — a  breeze 
Waking  an  old  unease ; 
Haze  when  the  day's  begun, 

Dawn  that  is  brisk  and  chill, 
Challenge  and  zest  in  the  sun, 

Setting  the  blood  athrill ! 
Fall ! — and  the  ducks  are  flying 

South  on  their  ancient  route, 
Hear  them  calling  and  crying! 

Hunter— come  out!    Come  out! 

Fall — and  the  forest  places 

Harbor  the  leaping  deer, 
Think  of  those  wooded  spaces, 

Think  of  the  campfire's  cheer! 
The  sound,  sweet  sleep,  the  lisp 
Of  the  leaves  in  the  wind,  the  crisp 

And  cleanly  smell  of  the  pines; 
Then  the  thrill  of  the  chase — to  find 

The  track  of  a  buck;  the  signs 
Of  his  light-foot  path,  and  to  read 
His  ways;  and  to  pit  your  mind 

Against  the  sight  and  the  scent 
And  the  wariness  and  speed 
Of  the  wild  free  thing  you  stalk: 

Then  the  shot— and  the  proud  content 
[i34] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 

AUTUMN  MAGIC  (continued) 

Of  bringing  your  prize  to  camp; 
And,  after  the  sturdy  tramp, 
Supper  and  smoke  and — talk. 
Ah,  that  is  living  indeed ! 
Why  do  you  wait  and  doubt? 
Hunter — come  out!    Come  out! 

Fall — and  a  sapphire  sky, 

And  your  blood  in  a  flood  that  races, 

And  the  call  of  the  ducks  that  fly, 
And  the  lure  of  the  hunting  places ! 

Fall — and  the  air's  astir 

With  the  tingle  of  life— the  whirr 

Of  a  myriad  myriad  wings 

And  the  movement  of  wild  wild  things! 

Fall — and  the  call  to  you 

To  come  as  you  used  to  do 

Back  on  the  good  old  route, 

Hunter — come  out!    Come  out! 


[135 1 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 


OUR   LADY   OF   CHANGE 

QOMETIMES  she's  a  merry  young  hoyden, 
^-5    A  madcap — fair  brimming  with  fun — 
Till  sudden  she  shifts  in  her  fancy  and  lifts 

The  sober  gray  eyes  of  a  Nun ; 
Her  moods  are  as  wayward  as  winds  are, 

They  change  like  the  leaping  of  flame, 
And  for  all  of  the  grace  of  her  form  and  her  face, 

She's  never  exactly  the  same ! 

Sometimes  she's  a  priestess  and  sibyl 

With  eyes  that  are  brooding  and  sad, 
Or  a  gypsy  girl  fair  with  a  rose  in  her  hair, 

Or  the  laughing  young  Love  of  a  lad, 
Sometimes  she's  Our  Lady  of  Sorrows 

Who's  drunken  of  life  to  the  lees, 
Or  a  Will-o'-the-wisp  just  as  light  as  the  lisp 

Of  the  leaves  of  the  whispering  trees. 

I've  found  her  as  true  as  a  mother, 

I've  known  her  as  false  as  a  jade, 
As  proud  and  serene  as  a  panoplied  queen, 

As  simple  and  sweet  as  a  maid — 
So  here's  to  My  Lady  Adventure 

Whose  magic  I  may  not  defy, 
By  hill  and  by  hollow  her  footsteps  I  follow, 

And  so  I  shall  do  till  I  die! 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


ULYSSES 

T  TLYSSES  was  a  rover,  a  roamer  and  a  rover 
**J     Who  sought  for  high  adventure  about  the  sound 
ing  sea, 
Who  roistered  and  philandered  and  fought  the  wide 

world  over, 
And  lived  a  life  tempestuous  and  free. 

Ulysses  was  a  rover,  a  roamer  and  a  rover, 

While  I  am  but  a  stay-at-home  with  never  chance 

to  flee, 
But   when   I   dream  of   wandering   the  wide   world 

blithely  over 
The  spirit  of  Ulysses  wakes  in  me. 

Ulysses  was  a  rover,  a  roamer  and  a  rover, 

And  when  my  hopes  are  realized  and  all  my  dreams 
come  true, 

I'll  roister  and  philander  and  fight  the  wide  world  over 
The  way  that  old  Ulysses  used  to  do. 


[i37l 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


THE   RESTLESS   LEGION 

WE'RE  off  to  the  end  of  the  world  again, 
We're  off  on  another  trail, 
Away  from  the  crowded  towns  of  men 

And  the  airs  that  are  sick  and  stale; 
There's  a  job  at  the  end  of  the  world  for  us, 

So  we're  done  with  our  labor  here, 
And  it's  pack  your  grip  for  the  outward  trip, 

We're  off  to  the  New  Frontier, 
And  it's  "Well,  so  long!"  to  the  toiling  throng. 

We're  off  to  the  New  Frontier. 

It's  off  to  the  land  of  dreams  we  are, 

Somewhere  on  the  Seven  Seas. 
Do  we  go  in  Peace,  do  we  go  in  War? 

Well,  that's  as  the  Fates  may  please. 
There  may  be  a  King  to  fight  with  us 

Or  a  jungle  for  us  to  clear; 
Whatever  the  game  it's  all  the  same, 

We're  off  to  the  New  Frontier; 
We're  primed  all  right  for  work  or  fight, 

We're  off  to  the  New  Frontier! 

We're  off  again  on  a  long,  long  chance 

To  the  lands  beyond  the  law. 
We're  off  in  search  of  the  True  Romance 

And  the  realms  that  are  new  and  raw; 
There  is  much  still  waits  for  the  white  man's  eyes 

And  the  feet  of  the  pioneer; 
[138] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  RESTLESS  LEGION  (continued) 

So  we're  off  once  more  to  distant  shore, 

We're  off  to  the  New  Frontier. 
And  we  shout  "So  long!"  to  the  toiling  throng, 

We're  off  to  the  New  Frontier! 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


WOMEN 

THERE'S  pretty  girls  in  every  port 
That  fronts  upon  the  foam, 
For  I've  made  love  in  Labrador, 

In  Cairo  and  in  Rome; 
I've  kissed  the  girls  of  London  Town 

And  sweet  to  kiss  were  they, 
But  Burmah  girls  are  just  as  sweet 
And  Frisco  girls  as  gay ! 

There's  always  eyes  to  sparkle  bright 

And  hearts  a-beating  warm, 
There's  lips  the  man  who's  bold  may  kiss 

And  waists  to  fill  an  arm ; 
The  maids  are  fair  in  Argentine 

And  dainty  in  Japan, 
There's  girls  to  love  in  all  the  world, 

If  you're  a  proper  man. 

And  who's  the  fairest  of  the  fair? 

Well,  hang  me  if  I  know! 
Sometimes  I  think  she  lives  in  France, 

Sometimes  in  Callao; 
But  take  'em  north  and  take  'em  south, 

And  take  'em  east  and  west, 
Of  all  the  girls  in  all  the  world! 

The  last  one  is  the  best! 


[140] 


SONGS   OF   THE    TRUE   ROMANCE 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 


BOHEMIA 

I'M  looking  for  Bohemia, 
Where  hearts  are  ever  kind, 
Where  all  the  folk  are  young  and  poor 

And  no  one  seems  to  mind ; 
I'm  looking  for  Bohemia, 

The  glad,  the  ever  gay, 
Where  faith  and  hope  are  verities, 
Where  undiscovered  merit  is. 
Won't  some  one  tell  me  where  it  is 

And  point  me  out  the  way? 

I'm  looking  for  Bohemia, 

Where  men  are  leal  and  true, 
Where  one  may  know  the  rosemary 

And  never  taste  the  rue; 
I'm  looking  for  Bohemia, 

Where  joy  has  her  abode. 
Oh,  I  have  heard  how  fair  it  is, 
How  filled  with  "do  and  dare"  it  is. 
Can  some  one  tell  me  where  it  is 

And  put  me  on  the  road? 

I'm  looking  for  Bohemia, 

The  land  of  heart's  desire, 
Where  love  is  made  of  tenderness 

And  not  of  tears  and  fire; 
I'm  looking  for  Bohemia 

Despite  the  cynics'  doubt 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

BOHEMIA  (continued) 

(An  idle  dream,  they  swear  it  is, 
The  truth  I  still  declare  it  is). 
Won't  some  one  tell  me  where  it  is 
And  set  me  on  the  route? 

I'm  looking  for  Bohemia, 

I've  sought  it  far  and  long : 
The  place  of  ever-wreathing  smoke, 

Of  laughter,  love  and  song. 
I'll  not  believe  Bohemia 

Is  only  dream-stuff  frail. 
Ah,  surely  more  than  air  it  is, 
In  some  Elysian  lair  it  is, 
And  I  shall  learn  of  where  it  is 

And  follow  on  the  trail! 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 


i 


TO  A  PHOTOGRAPHER 

HAVE  known  love  and  hate  and  work  and  fight; 
I  have  lived  largely,  I  have  dreamed  and  planned, 
And  Time,  the  Sculptor,  with  a  master  hand 
Has  graven  on  my  face  for  all  men's  sight 
Deep  lines  of  joy  and  sorrow,  growth  and  blight 
Of  labor  and  of  service  and  command 
— And  now  you  show  me  this,  this  waxen,  bland 
And  placid  face,  unlined,  unwrinkled,  white. 

This  is  not  I — this  fatuous  thing  you  show, 

Retouched  and  smoothed  and  prettified  to  please. 

Put  back  the  wrinkles  and  the  lines  I  know; 
I  have  spent  blood  and  tears  achieving  these, 

Out  of  the  pain,  the  struggle  and  the  wrack 

These  are  my  scars  of  battle — put  them  back! 


[i45l 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 


THE    REFORMER 

DOES  it  make  you  mad  when  you  read  about 
Some  poor,  starved  devil  who  flickered  out 
Because  he  had  never  a  decent  chance 
In  the  tangled  meshes  of  circumstance? 
If  it  makes  you  burn  like  the  fires  of  sin, 
Brother,  you're  fit  for  the  ranks — fall  in! 

Does  it  make  you  rage  when  you  come  to  learn 
Of  a  clean  souled  woman  who  could  not  earn 
Enough  to  live  and  who  fought,  but  fell 
In  the  bitter  struggle  and  went  to  hell? 
Does  it  make  you  seethe  with  an  anger  hot? 
Brother,  we  welcome  you,  share  our  lot! 

Whoever  has  blood  that  will  flood  his  face 
At  the  sight  of  the  Beast  in  the  holy  place ; 
Whoever  has  rage  for  the  tyrant's  might, 
For  the  powers  that  prey  in  the  day  and  night ; 
Whoever  has  hate  for  the  ravening  brute, 
That  strips  the  tree  of  its  goodly  fruit ; 
Whoever  knows  wrath  at  the  sight  of  pain, 
Of  needless  sorrow  and  heedless  gain ; 
Whoever  knows  bitterness,  shame  and  gall 
At  the  thought  of  the  trampled  ones  doomed  to  fall ; 
He  is  a  brother-in-blood,  we  know, 
With  brain  afire  and  with  heart  aglow ; 
By  the  light  in  his  eyes  we  sense  our  kin, 
Brother,  you  battle  with  us — fall  in! 

[146] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 


u 


THE    SONG   OF   THE   AERONAUT 


P  from  the  emerald  turf  I  rise  to  the  lure  of  the 

arching  blue, 
With  a  song  in  my  heart  like  the  ancient  song  the 

great  Olympians  knew. 
While  I  steady  myself  on  wings  of  white  to  the  rush 

of  the  roving  breeze, 
Tempting  the  wrath   of  the  infinite,   the  marvelous 

weightless  seas; 
Below  me  the  world  is  a  blur  of  green,  a  flicker  of 

brown  and  red, 

And  the  vault  of  the  sky  is  mine  to  try  and  the  limit 
less  vast  ahead! 
It's  sport  that  only  the  birds  have  known  who  poise 

in  the  upper  day, 
But  now  I  challenge  their  airy  throne — these  kings  of 

the  blue  highway ! 

I  buffet  my  route  through  winds  that  shout,  I  dip  to 
the  billows  of  air, 

And  mock  me  the  hawk  and  the  pirate  bird  that  hover 
in  wonder  there. 

Disdainful   I    sweep   above   mortals   who   creep   like 
worms  on  the  overturned  clod, 

And  serenely  I  soar  in  the  empire  of  space — an  inso 
lent,  strong-winged  god! 

The  purr  of  the  motors,  the  shiver  of  wires  and  the  lift 
of  the  quivering  planes, 

As  I  clamber  the  sides  of  aerial  hills  and  swoop  down 
aerial  lanes, 

[i47l 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  AERONAUT  (continued) 

Stir  all  my  blood  to  a  turbulent  flood  till  all  that  is 

earthly  of  me 
Is  lost  in  a  rapture  of  speed  and  of  flight — I  am  free, 

I  am  free,  I  am  free ! 

For  mine  is  no  road  that  is  meted  and  bound,  but  the 

way  of  the  wind  and  the  sky, 
Beyond  all  the  dust  and  the  fret  and  the  heat,  above 

all  the  clamor  I  fly 
To  the  height  where  the  hawk  circles  wary  and  lone, 

to  the  vault  where  the  bald  eagles  scream, 
Where  the  fetters  of  earth  and  the  worries  of  earth  are 

dim  in  the  haze  of  a  dream. 
Then  sudden  I  drop  toward  the  world  I  have  left  and 

the  wind  whistles  keen  through  the  frame, 
Or  I  wheel  and  I  swing  in  a  glorious  ring  on  a  trail 

that  is  never  the  same. 
Oh,  danger  is  mine  in  this  frolic  divine  as  I  dare  all 

the  forces  that  slay, 
But  mine  is  the  song  of  the  free  and  the  strong — the 

Lord  of  the  Blue  Highway ! 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 


THE   DESERTER 

YOU  can  put  me  into  irons  for  my  durn  fool  crime, 
You  can  make  me  scrub  an*  labor  for  a  long,  long 

time, 

You  can  set  me  scrapin'  turrets  in  the  hot,  hot  sun, 
You  can  make  me  scrape  another  when  that  job  is 

done; 

Yes,  I'll  pay  my  penance  gladly,  for  I've  got  my  sense, 
An*  I'll  charge  the  pain  an'  trouble  to  experience. 
I  went  an'  I  deserted  like  a  plain  fool  Jack; 
I  was  weary  of  the  navy — Thank  the  Lord  I'm  back! 

I  was  sick  of  young  Lieutenants  an'  of  non-coms  too, 
An'  I  thought  myself  a  member  of  a  poor  slave  crew, 
I  didn't  like  the  duties  or  the  dis-cip-pline, 
An*  I  thought  I  was  mistreated  on  the  salty  brine, 
So  I  chucked  away  an'  beat  it,  I  was  smooth,  you  bet, 
If  I  hadn't  come  here  willin'  you'd  be  searchin'  yet, 
But  Gosh,  how  clean  the  ship  is,  nothin'  skimped  or 

slack, 
It  was  me  that  quit  the  navy — an'  it's  me  that's  back! 

Yes,  I  had  my  taste  of  freedom  an'  it  lasted  quick, 
I  met  a  lot  of  hoboes  an'  they  made  me  sick, 
I  found  a  lubber's  labor  wasn't  nothin'  grand, 
An'  I  didn't  care  fur  cussin'  'stead  of  stern  command, 
My  bunks  was  somethin'  awful  an*  my  food  was  rot, 
An'  I  missed  my  little  hammock  an'  the  mess  we  got, 
I  was  scared  of  bein'  captured  on  most  every  tack, 
An' — Lord,  but  I  was  filthy,  so  I  just  came  back! 

[  i49  ] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 

THE  DESERTER  (continued) 

You  can  put  me  into  irons,  I  don't  give  a  damn, 

I  am  back  again  in  service  of  my  Uncle  Sam, 

An'  I've  got  a  navy  outfit  an*  my  body's  clean, 

An*  in  time  I'll  win  my  place  back  in  the  big  machine, 

With  its  rules  an'  regulations,  with  its  work  an'  play, 

With  its  drills  an'  guns  an'  spirit,  an'  its  good  sure  pay, 

With  its  beatin'  round  the  oceans  on  the  broad  sea 

track, 
— Oh,  I'll  get  it,  good  an'  plenty,  but  I'm  glad  I'm 

back! 


[150] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 


THE    MOTHER 

SURE,  an'  I'm  waitin'  to  hear  but  the  step  av  him, 
Him  that's  been  gone  from  us  year  afther  year, 
He  will  come  back  like  the  picture  I've  kep'  av  him 

Smilin'  an'  gay  wid  his  mirth  an'  his  cheer. 
Thrue,  they  are  sayin'  it's  death  that  has  taken  him, 

But  I  know  betther  that  knew  him  so  well, 
An'  it's  meself  will  be  huggin'  an'  shakin'  him 
Whin  he  comes  back  wid  fine  sthories  to  tell. 

Whin  the  wind  whistles  I  think  it's  the  trill  av  him 

— That  was  the  way  he  would  do  whin  he  came, — 
Why  do  you  sit  there  an'  talkin'  so  ill  av  him, 

Sayin'  he's  dead?    It  shud  fill  ye  wid  shame; 
Yes,  I  remimber  him  lyin'  here  stilly-like, 

But  he  was  foolin'  ye,  women  an'  men, 
'Twas  but  a  prank  av  him,  foolish  an'  silly-like, 

Sure,  he'll  be  back  to  his  mother  again. 

Whin  the  door  rattles  I  think,  "  'Tis  the  hand  av  him 

Feelin'  around  fer  the  latch  in  the  dark, 
Whin  he  comes  in  I'll  be  cross  an'  demand  av  him 

Why  he  stayed  out  so  late  havin'  a  lark." 
So,  all  the  time  I  am  harkin'  an'  listenin', 

Hearin'  each  step  an'  each  sound  in  the  gloam, 
Sure,  me  old  eyes  wid  the  tear  drops  are  glistenin' 

Thinkin'  how  glad  I'll  be  whin  he  comes  home ! 


[151] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


THE    GHOST   OF   PETE    McCLUSKEY 

THE  ghost  of  Pete  McCluskey  came  aknockin*  on 
the  door. 
"Come  in;  come  in,"  I  says  to  him;  "but  do  not  thrack 

the  floor — 
'Tis  newly  washed  this  afthernoon" — an*  then  I  shuk 

wid  fright, 

For  Peter  stud  before  me  an*  the  door  still  fastened 
tight. 

"Resoomin'  av  our  argyment  the  night  before  I  died," 
Said  Pete  McCluskey  then  to  me,  asittin'  by  my  side, 
"I've  wandhered  round  the  universe  in  spiritual  guise, 
An*  since  I  died  I  find  I  am  particularly  wise ; 
An*  I  have  thought  av  argyments  that  certainly  is 

strong, 
An*  so  I  came  to  talk  to  ye  an*  show  ye  where  ye're 

wrong." 

I  thried  to  speak,  but  not  a  word  wud  issue  from  me 

lip, 
While  Pete  McCluskey  opened  up  an*  let  his  language 

rip. 
He  may  have  sailed  the  universe,  but  what  he  didn't 

learn 

Wud  fill  a  library  or  two,  with  stuff  besides  to  burn; 
His  argyments  was  futile  rot  for  all  he  was  a  ghost. 
I  hope  I'll  have  more  brains  than  Pete  when  I  am  with 

the  host. 

[152] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  GHOST  OF  PETE  McCLUSKEY  (continued) 
But  nary  word  cud  I  put  in  while  he  went  on  an'  on, 
Explainin*  foolish  argyments  till  I  was  pale  an*  wan ; 
He  shuk  his  finger,  slapped  his  knee,  an*  talked  an' 

talked  some  more, 

An*  though  I  am  a  patient  man  I  sure  was  gettin'  sore ; 
His  postulates  was  very  bad,  his  premises  was  worse, 
An*  yet  I  cudn't  shut  him  up  or  answer  him  or  curse. 

As  dawn  came  on  he  started  off,  asayin*  as  he  went : 
"Now  this  is  what  I  surely  call  a  pleasant  argyment. 
You  haven't  had  a  word  to  say ;  I  take  it  you  agree 
With  all  I've  said? — to  argue  thus  is  Heaven  enough 

for  me. 
Why  shud  I  tap  at  Heaven's  gate  when  this  is  just  as 

well?" 
"It  may  be  Heaven  for  you,"  I  says ;  "but,  Pete,  for  me 

it's  hell." 

Then  Pete  he  smiles  an'  disappears ;  but  when  he  came 

again 

I  had  a  dozen  Socialists  to  help  me  out,  an*  then 
They  put  poor  Peter  on  the  blink ;  it  was  a  bitter  cup. 
But  even  ghostly  sophistries  cud  never  shut  them  up. 

It  broke  his  heart,  an*  though  he  comes  an'  knocks 

upon  the  door 
He  sits  an*  never  says  a  word,  while  I — I  have  the 

floor. 

An'  if  you  happen  round  at  night  you  probably  will  see 
The  ghost  of  Pete  McCluskey  always  listenin'  to  me! 


[i53] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


THE   ADVENTURER 

CITY  of  power  and  city  of  might, 
Of  plunder  and  passion  and  woe  and  delight, 
The  sound  of  your  voice  is  a  trumpeter's  blare, 
A  challenge  that's  flung  on  the  palpitant  air, 
A  paean  of  battle,  a  taunt,  and  a  call 
To  join  in  the  conflict  and  conquer — or  fall, 
To  thrust  and  to  parry,  to  feint  and  to  lunge ; 
So — into  the  tumult  I  plunge ! 

I  fear  you? — the  city  of  opulent  dreams — 
Because  of  your  vastness  that  pulses  and  teems? 
Why,  here  are  my  hands,  they  are  young,  they  are 

strong 

As  any  two  hands  in  the  thick  of  the  throng ; 
And  here  are  my  eyes  and  my  body  and  brain 
Alert  for  the  glory  and  gold  I  shall  gain. 
So — fearless  I  face  you,  O  huge,  roaring  brute, 
Besotted  with  splendor  and  glutted  with  loot ! 

What  peril  of  jungle  or  desert  or  sea 
Has  more  of  a  thrill  than  your  dangers  to  me, 
Or  greater  romance  than  the  conflict  that  rolls 
On  your  vast  battlefield  of  a  myriad  souls  ? 

I  cry  you  defiance !    Your  masters  and  slaves, 
Your  wasters  and  delvers  and  dreamers  and  knaves, 
I  war  for  your  palaces,  pleasures  and  pelf; 
I  fear  you  no  whit — f or  I  fear  not  myself ; 
I  face  you  and  fight  you,  nor  whimper  for  aid, 
Since  you  crawl  to  the  feet  of  the  man  unafraid ! 

[i54] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


SPRING   IN   THE   CITY 

OVER  the  stones  of  the  city  street 
Comes  a  wind  of  promise,  warm  and  sweet ; 
Gently  it  breathes  on  the  city  square 
A  balm  and  softness  blithe  and  rare, 
A  message  of  Springtide  everywhere. 
There's  a  hint  o'  dreams  in  the  shop-girl's  eyes 
(So  soon  grown  weary  and  hard  and  wise !) 
And  the  old  blind  beggar  is  seen  to  smile, 
Making  his  plea  for  pence  the  while ; 
And  the  money-grubber  becomes  less  grim 
When  the  glad  wind  whispers  a  word  to  him ; 
While  the  slums  respond  to  the  tender  thrill 
As  the  zephyr  sighs  at  the  window-sill. 
And  the  babies  coo,  and  the  mothers  croon, 
And  even  the  street  piano's  tune 
Seems  sweet  and  gay  as  the  pipes  o'  Pan 
In  the  golden  days  when  the  world  began ! 
It  needs  no  green  of  the  turf  or  trees, 
No  chirp  of  robins  or  hum  of  bees, 
To  prove  the  goddess  is  on  her  way ; 
For  over  the  city,  dull  and  gray, 
This  wind  comes  frolicking,  fair  and  free, 
A  joyous  herald  of  Arcady. 
And  drudge  and  wanton  and  rich  and  poor 
Are  summoned  alike  by  the  laughing  lure, 
And  we  know  by  the  glow  in  the  eyes  of  men 
That  Spring's  come  back  to  the  town  again ! 

[i55] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


THE   TELEPHONE    DIRECTORY 

WHAT  is  there  seeming  duller  than  this  book, 
This  stolid  volume  of  prosaic  print? 
And  yet  it  is  a  glass  through  which  we  look 

On  wonderland  and  marvels  without  stint. 
It  is  a  key  which  will  unlock  the  gate 

Of  distance  and  of  time  and  circumstance, 
A  wand  that  makes  the  wires  articulate 

With  hum  of  trade  and  whisper  of  romance ! 

Somehow  there  is  enchantment  in  each  page — 

The  whirr  of  wheels,  the  murmurs  of  the  mart, 
The  myriad  mighty  voices  of  the  age, 

The  throbbing  of  the  great  world's  restless  heart,- 
Such  are  the  sounds  this  volume  seems  to  store 

For  him  who  feels  the  magic  of  its  thrall, 
Who  views  the  vistas  it  unrolls  before 

His  eyes  that  scarce  can  comprehend  them  all! 

Here  is  the  guide  to  all  the  vast  extent 

The  wires  have  bound  together,  this  will  show 
The  way  to  help  when  need  is  imminent, 

When  terror  threatens  or  when  life  burns  low ; 
This  brings  the  lover  to  his  heart's  desire, 

That  he  may  speak  to  her  o'er  hill  and  lea, 
This  is  the  secret  of  the  singing  wire, 

To  all  the  "world  without"  this  is  the  key! 


[156] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


THE   PHONOGRAPH 

I  AM  the  voice  of  sadness,  I  am  the  voice  of  mirth ; 
I  carry  the  magic  message  to  the  uttermost  ends 

of  earth; 
And  though  the  critics  mock  me  with  many  a  bitter 

sneer, 

Out  in  the  lonely  places  my  song  is  good  to  hear, 
And  what  do  I  care  for  critics  cooped  up  in  a  four- 
walled  pen? 

Out  in  the  desert  spaces  I  comfort  the  souls  of  men ; 
To  pioneers  on  the  border  the  message  of  Home  I 

bring, 
By  wizardry  of  a  record,  a  vibrant  steel  and  a  spring! 

I  stir  the  heart  with  old  songs 

And  light  the  eyes  with  new, 
I  chant  the  more-than-gold  songs 

Which  thrill  you  through  and  through; 
The  gentle  and  the  bold  songs, 

I  sing  them  all  to  you ! 

Into  the  tenement  dingy  I  carry  the  songs  of  May, 
I  bring  a  flush  of  color  to  faces  all  pinched  and  gray, 
And  out  in  the  lonely  farmhouse  I  warble  my  gayest 

air, 
Bringing  the  voice  of  the  city  for  the  country  dwellers 

to  share; 

[i57] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 

THE  PHONOGRAPH  (continued) 

When  men  are  weary  of  toiling  and  their  hearts  are 

heavy  as  lead 
I  rattle  a  song  in  ragtime  till  the  dreariest  blues  are 

fled. 
You  may  say  my  voice  is  raucous  and  the  music  I 

make  is  "canned," 
But  you'll  hear  me  singing  my  carols  in  every  clime 

and  land. 

I  sing  the  blithe  and  brave  songs, 

The  songs  of  East  and  West, 
The  mountain  and  the  wave  songs, 

The  love-songs  tenderest, 
The  laughing  and  the  grave  songs, 

Whatever  suits  you  best. 

Now  hark  to  my  proclamation,  O  you  of  the  critic 

court! 

I  have  taught  more  people  music  than  all  of  your  carp 
ing  sort. 
I  have  made  the  work  of  the  Masters,  their  glorious, 

mighty  spell, 
Not  only  the  rich  men's  pleasure,  but  the  poor  man's 

joy  as  well, 
While  you,  in  your  cynic  wisdom,  your  poisoned  shafts 

have  hurled, 
I  have  been  spreading  gladness  and  beauty  over  the 

world. 
In  palace  and  hut  and  cabin,  from  pole  to  the  tropic 

line, 
Wherever  your  feet  may  wander,  the  Voice  you  will 

hear  is  MINE! 

[158] 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY    WORLD 

THE  PHONOGRAPH  (continued) 

With  classic  and  with  light  songs, 

With  songs  of  pain  and  glee, 
With  morning,  noon  or  night  songs, 

With  songs  of  land  or  sea, 
But  ever  with  the  right  songs, 

I  bring  you  Arcady ! 


SONGS    OF   THE    WORKADAY   WORLD 


THE    LIVING    EPITAPH 

WHEN  I  pass  out  and  my  time  is  spent, 
I  hope  for  no  lofty  monument, 
No  splendid  procession  marching  slow, 
Along  the  last  long  road  I  go; 
No  pomp  and  glory  I  care  for  then, 
When  I  depart  from  the  world  of  men. 

But  I'd  like  to  think  when  my  race  is  through 
That  there  will  be  in  the  world  a  few 
Who'll  say,  "Well,  there  is  a  good  man  gone, 
I'm  sorry  to  see  him  passing  on, 
For  he  was  a  sort  that's  fair  and  square, 
The  kind  of  fellow  it's  hard  to  spare. 

"He  hadn't  money,  he  hadn't  fame, 
But  he  kept  the  rules  and  he  played  the  game, 
His  eyes  were  true  and  his  laugh  was  clear, 
He  held  his  truth  and  his  honor  dear. 
And  now  that  his  work  is  at  an  end, 
I  know  how  much  I  shall  miss  my  friend." 

If  my  life  shall  earn  such  words  as  those 
I  shall  smile  in  peace  as  my  eyelids  close, 
I  shall  rest  in  quiet  and  lie  content, 
With  the  words  of  a  friend  for  my  monument. 


[160] 


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